


Closer to the Clouds Up Here

by dhyanshiva, HackedByAWriter



Category: Shubh Mangal Zyada Saavdhan (2020)
Genre: Angst, Bucket List, Eventual Happy Ending, Fluff, Hot Air Balloons, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Miscommunication, Poetry, Post-Canon, Songs, blame the angst on dhyan, dhyan has a shield, gulab jamun, quotes, rajma chawal (I am only slightly kidding), sargun had no hand in this, sargun has various weapons, sargun is also lying, we are unstoppable
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26561017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dhyanshiva/pseuds/dhyanshiva, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HackedByAWriter/pseuds/HackedByAWriter
Summary: Kartik Singh and Aman Tripathi thought they had gotten their happily ever after. But when has reality ever been so clear cut?They’d been so certain of what lay ahead but now Kartik doesn't know if they tread the same path anymore.Day by day a sort of distance grows between them. Aman feels as if it is up to him to make amends. Will he succeed or are their dreams destined to turn to a puff of smoke?
Relationships: Kartik Singh/Aman Tripathi
Comments: 67
Kudos: 44





	1. Half a Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, so this was brought to you by two angst authors who were inspired by a hot air balloon writing joke on Tumblr. All knives are welcome, between us we have many weapons and a shield.

_ Love takes off masks that we fear  _

_ we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. _

– James Baldwin

It is a tale we all think we know. A tale in words, a tale in ink, a tale in film. Two lovers who have triumphed against all odds, two lovers who fought the world and rose victorious from the ashes. It was said they wrote their own happily ever after. But the tale doesn’t end there. 

A tale hardly ends when the pages of a storybook say so.

This is what the silver screen will never show you, what the happily-ever-afters could never cover. They never showed you how the beast would look into his mirror constantly seeing the monster, not the man. They never showed you how Cinderella shattered her own glass slipper in a fit of frenzy born from dreams and magic that were constricting her. Or how Snow White would taste the bitter poison on every apple she eats. 

Behind every happy ending are scars that even time can not mend. 

But one can always try, can they not, to live through them, wear them with pride rather than shame, to show them off like glittering jewels rather than flesh wounds. 

_ Love is a shadow. _

_ How you lie and cry after it _

_ Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse. _

\- Sylvia Plath, Elm

I love you.

Three simple words. 

But it isn’t always so easy, and the events of the last year had shown this to be true all too well. It was perhaps with too large a dose of naivety that Aman had agreed to take Kartik to Allahabad that September. Surely, they wouldn’t cause any drama? But the adrenaline rush of ‘Devika Ko Bhagao Andolan’ hadn’t worn off, and it had clouded his rationality. Who was he kidding? They were the Tripathis, a family who could give Kartik a run for his money in the drama department. 

They’d braved that storm but hadn’t escaped unscathed, God no. 

The chaos, the fear was something that they hadn’t exactly addressed and had put it behind them and pushed forward with life. Yet, it lingered in glazed eyes, silent nights and subdued days. Even now, months later, Aman could see the ghosts of those bruises and the sight of Kartik in that state was seared into his memory. 

As much as his lover had tried to hide it, Aman knew he carried this new weight on his shoulders. He’d taken the brunt of so much till now that he hardly stooped, but the impact was seen elsewhere. He didn’t meet each day with the same zeal as before and the spark of life dimmed with every passing moment.

It wasn’t that Kartik was  _ always  _ a cheerful person, he had his bad spells too. The concern was that this one didn’t seem to lift and Aman didn’t know what had brought it on, not entirely. 

Each day brought in new challenges, and the opportunity to give up presented itself all too often. Some weeks felt like trials by fire and this had been one of them. Without meaning to, the distance between them had built and he didn’t know how to bridge it once more. Well, as they say, the route to a man’s heart is through his stomach so there was no harm in giving it a go. 

The regrets and complaints began to clamour in his head and the only way to silence them was through music. He didn’t trust himself to not go down that seemingly endless rabbit hole of self-doubt and ‘what ifs’ and he needed the distraction more than ever. This was a technique he’d picked up from Kartik, categorising playlists by the task they seemed to suit. 

It had been a few days since Aman had been granted the time to cook something of value and really, now was as good a time as any. 

Out of nowhere, Aman was hit by a wave of nostalgia and the longing for his mother’s embrace nearly made him cry. Well, he’d have to go for the next best thing available and that would be Sunaina Tripathi’s Rajma Chawal. She’d given him the fiercely guarded recipe after years of pestering and puppy-eyed looks.

The prospect of something so familiar and delicious made him smile and Aman made his way to their room to retrieve the well-worn notebook crammed with all sorts of recipes. With the ‘Cooking Playlist’ playing in the background, Aman centred his focus on the task at hand. The preliminary setup took a good 15 minutes during which he heard the key in the lock and Kartik’s heavy sigh before he undoubtedly fell face first onto the sofa. At his arrival, some of the pent up tension between his shoulders eased away.

The familiarity of this new routine made him frown but seeing as he didn’t call out to him, Aman chose not to start up a conversation. Kartik had put in extra overtime and Aman knew it got on the man’s last nerve, interacting with some of their colleagues more than was required. He decided instead on getting at least this  _ one  _ thing - a simple enough meal - right, for that would be more than enough. 

It was methodical and he worked almost on autopilot. After great negotiation, the spices had been placed at a  _ reasonable  _ height so he didn’t have to seek the taller man’s assistance. He missed the company though, the easy, lighthearted conversation. Not for the first time, Aman longed to be the first to reach out and try. Why did it somehow always end up being Kartik’s responsibility to try and make amends? Aman had to make sure that this time went differently. The first step would be a cordial meal together.

  
  


_ People are unknowable.  _

_ You can never really know what goes on inside someone else’s heart. _

\- Alec Hardy ( Broadchurch ) 

It had been an exhausting week at work and Kartik had all but collapsed on the sofa as soon as he’d set his bag down. For a moment he closes his eyes. For a moment he lets his body still, let’s the exhaustion that had been threatening to overwhelm him the whole day, seep into his bones. 

He hated it, working overtime. The voices of his coworkers grating against his ears, nails on a chalkboard except a thousand times worse. But working overtime paid the bills and he knew Aman didn’t have the time for that, studying, doing his masters at the same time as well as working a full-time job. 

In truth, enduring the mindless chatter of his coworkers was a small price to pay if it meant Aman didn’t burn out as he tended to do when faced with such pressure.

Automatically Kartik’s body postured himself to accommodate his bruises. Except he had no bruises to speak of, phantom bruises, ghost bruises if anything. 

From the kitchen he could hear Aman, cooking a meal, his Spotify cooking playlist, reaching his ears in faint whispers. It was something that Aman had picked up from him. Before meeting Kartik, Aman had admitted to not being a huge fan of listening to music while doing his work, he used to say that it did the opposite of helping him focus. It was distracting. 

He did not even listen to music while working out, which quite frankly was its own form of torture. Kartik remarked once that Aman must have been planning cold-blooded vengeance, there could be no other reason for putting himself through so much pain. 

“Yeah,” Aman would respond. “Vengeance against you for stealing my Maggi noodles on our seventh date.”

Aman never let him forget it. 

“I look forward to this  _ vengeance  _ of yours.” Kartik had said off-handedly. 

He had learned that night exactly why they said vengeance was a dish best served sweet. 

Lately, however, the music had become a fixture for Aman, a distraction from the quiet. Kartik could not deny it. A certain silence had fallen between the two of them. A silence that had started a month after their return from Allahabad. 

It was monotonous. 

It was painful. 

If it went on any longer Kartik was sure it would kill him. 

He often wondered how it came to this. The month after Allahabad had been filled with the sweetest of words, cherry wine, tangled sheets, love and laughter. It had been nothing short of heaven. 

He supposed, in reality, it had been a dwindling mercurial high more than anything else.

Their little heaven slipped away, slowly but surely. Kartik remembered then the tale of how Adam and Eve had been cast from heaven from eating the forbidden fruit. They had lost their heaven in their avarice. And Kartik was losing his just the same. He was losing Aman because of his selfish desire to be a part of something more, to be a part of a world that Aman was not ready to let him into.

And he was left with this. 

Instead of filling that silence with meaningful words, sly witty banter, with cuddles and kisses, they filled them instead with music. Letting the words of others do the talking for them. Though Kartik understood, as he always did, or at least always tried to, he wanted nothing more than to hear Aman’s voice. Just his voice. Nothing else.

The music stopped. Aman must have known that he had come back home. Kartik could hear his footsteps approaching the living room. He let his eyes remain shut, pretend he had fallen asleep. He used to do this frequently before Allahabad. Pretending to be asleep in order to enjoy the little things Aman would do for him.

He would kiss his forehead, cheek, or his closed eyelids. Sometimes he would stroke his hair and murmur sweet nothings in his ears. If it was too cold he would cover him with a blanket. But always, later, without fail Aman would wake Kartik up to remind him it was dinner time because he sure as fuck was not going to bed without something substantial in his stomach.

So Kartik waited, hoping for this little bit of normalcy at the very least.

  
  


_ Your memory feels like home to me. _

_ So whenever my mind wanders, it always finds its way back to you. _

―  Ranata Suzuki

The aroma wafted through the air and into the living room, following Aman as he walked towards Kartik. Reaching out, he was about to run a hand through his hair but pulled up short at the last second. 

Recently, Kartik had come to get spooked quite easily and Aman found he didn’t want to add to his uneasiness if he could help it. Startling him out of his slumber certainly wouldn’t do. He’d have to come out of it alone, in his own time. 

He sighed softly and went back into the kitchen to retrieve their dinner. As soon as his back was turned, Aman swore he felt the weight of Kartik’s gaze on him and it stopped him from walking any further. He must’ve turned back too late, however, for his husband hadn’t moved a muscle. 

Well, in his head at least, they were married. 

Before he could question  _ yet again  _ if Kartik still felt the same, Aman sought the privacy of the kitchen once more. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Aman frowned. The frown lines seemed even deeper as he slept and that was simply unacceptable. Perhaps some gulab jamun would lift his lover’s spirits. Would Kartik like them though? He’d become more conscious of everything now and maybe the  _ mithai  _ would have the opposite effect. Aman decided to leave it up to him - after all, it felt like they were no longer attuned to one another, so it was probably best. 

Pulling out their respective cutlery was done with more force than necessary but it seemed to do the job as he heard footsteps behind him. The gait was slow and heavy, so unlike his ordinary pace and yet again, he was reminded, painfully so, of how exhausted he was. For reasons even he couldn’t fathom, Aman couldn’t meet Kartik’s eyes as he set the table, though he knew the other man was watching him rather keenly. 

He didn’t know if there was anything worth saying anymore. He took his seat and fiddled with the tablecloth listlessly. When and why had things become so.. awkward between them? And how did the change in Kartik escape his notice? Surely that was in one of the vows?  _ Sukh aur dukh _ , in sickness and in health? And he hadn’t abided by it. He’d let Kartik, let them down. Again. 

No wonder Kartik didn’t want to call him out on it - the Allahabad fiasco had been a demonstration enough of his inability to stick to his word, to fall short when he was meant to go to any length possible. Like Kartik had done. Hence, to hear his voice, so quiet and unsure, startled him and he looked up to see that he hadn’t imagined it.

“How was today?”

  
  


_ Stand and face me, my love, _

_ and scatter the grace in your eyes. _

\- Sappho, Sweet Bitter Love

Kartik could deny that he had been left with a sense of disappointment when Aman had walked away without even touching his hair, whispering something. There was an ache in his heart that was not unlike the bruises that had once riddled his body.

What had he done wrong? 

The answer came to him as soon as the question had been put forth. Allahabad. Everything in Allahabad had been his fault. He should not have pressured Aman to let him come.

He stood before Aman, opposite the shitty dining table they had bought two years ago on sale. Up until his arrival, Aman had been making a loud enough racket to wake the living dead. Kartik could feel his husband’s steady gaze on him. 

_ Husband.  _

Boyfriend had shifted to husband in his mind the night, under starlight, fairy lights, they had done their pheras, the wedding mantra, their own prayer, their own song, stolen straight from the soundtrack of Sholay.

_ Yeh dosti hum nahin todenge _

_ Todenge dum magar _

_ Tera saath na chodenge _

As he looked at Aman yet again he wondered whether their friendship, nevermind their marriage, was close to breaking despite their vows. He wondered for the first time whether he still had the right to call him that.  _ Husband.  _ By God, their marriage wasn’t even legal, religious or anything that could be binding. It was a marriage of their hearts. But for the first time, he wondered if the beating of Aman’s heart had slowed as if it was no longer in time with his own.

Aman had not answered his question yet ‘How was your day?’. It was a simple question but Aman stared. Stared as if Kartik had done something out of the ordinary. After a few painful seconds that felt more like years Aman spoke.

“Not half bad,” his voice was soft, but he smiled. That had to be something right? If only the smile did not seem strangled. “How was yours?”

Kartik shrugged. He was not sure whether he should sit down or not. He felt almost like an intruder. Which was strange, this was supposed to be his home too, he was after all paying half the rent.

“Kabir’s still being a dick,” offered Kartik, when his shrug was not met with questions as it once used to. “You think I can deck him and get away with it someday?”

“Only if you want to get fired.”

There it was. The sly spark that had always underlined their conversations. Though it was a small spark, a dull ember in the ashes in the flame that used to light up their lives, it was something. 

The familiar smell of rajma and chawal filled Kartik’s nose. It was Kartik’s favourite dish (after perhaps paneer but that was debatable). He loved the way Aman (and in a way he supposed Sunaina too) cooked them. A close contender to his mother’s recipe, though he had long forgotten how that had once tasted. He felt at home once again, on familiar ground.

“We haven’t eaten together in a while,” said Aman nervously. “I thought that…”

He trailed off, leaving unspoken words to hang in the silence. 

At this Kartik sat down opposite Aman and took his hand. The hand that had been fidgeting with the tablecloth. It stilled beneath his touch. Not in a way that stiffened, but in a way that told Kartik he was relaxed.

Their eyes met and Kartik found himself lost in Aman’s brilliant dark glittering eyes.

That too felt a little like normalcy. It gave him hope that perhaps, not all was falling to ruin.

He caressed the space between Aman’s knuckles and smiled. He did not say anymore. He did not feel like he needed to. 

_ The heart is the toughest part of the body. _

_ Tenderness is in the hands. _

_―_ Carolyn Forché, The Country Between Us

  
  


Aman supposed that the brief interaction was better than silence. In fact, he’d take  _ anything  _ over the unbearable quiet between them. However, he still felt off-kilter, somehow. They were still Aman and Kartik yet at the same time.. they weren’t. The events of Allahabad had changed them irrevocably. Try as he might, Aman couldn’t recall who they were before all this. He longed for the distance to disappear, for them to really talk. And not just that, to have them understand one another again. But would they ever return to that sense of normalcy? He truly doubted it.

The stilted conversation, the awkward faltering wasn’t  _ them. _ But he had to acknowledge that they’d been warped to be this way. It wasn’t easily remedied, the damage inflicted had been too severe to just cast aside and begin from where they’d left off, Pre Allahabad (as Aman had come to see it). No, they’d have to accept that there was no returning - the only way to do this was to look ahead and mould a brighter future from the bleak events of the past.

For the first time in weeks, Aman had seen a spark of mischief in Kartik’s eyes, and only in its absence did he realise how bright the light had been and how much he had longed for it. To see it return was a start, an indication that all was not lost. Perhaps he’d been mistaken?

Yet, it hadn’t been until Kartik had reached out to hold his hand that he could believe and accept it. His touch had been tender, gentle and  _ loving _ . It had been unexpected but welcome. It felt like coming home and the realisation had brought with it a sense of relief Aman didn’t know had escaped him in the first place.

Yes, they lived together but on returning to Delhi, from the place he used to call home, Aman no longer saw it as their haven or their heaven. The stark, painful reality of life outside these four walls had stripped him of that illusion. It felt like another dwelling and he and Kartik merely coexisted in the same space, after the euphoria had faded. 

Oh Gods, that euphoria had given them a high like no other and Aman supposed now that it was what made the fall so much harder to bear. But the simple act of Kartik taking Aman’s hand in his, was comforting and calmed the racing of his heart. In that moment, acutely aware of Kartik’s pulse and it matched his. They were connected once more and the fact of the matter made itself apparent in that moment. Home wasn’t a place, home was a person and for Aman Tripathi, that person was none other than Kartik Singh.

It was now a matter of showing this to the man that lay beside him now. That it was pitch black and the dead of the night gave Aman the dose of courage he simply couldn’t call on in the day. 

Reaching across, he took Kartik’s hand in his, the cool sensation of his rings familiar and comforting. Even in his sleep, Kartik squeezed his hand in response and with the resolve to do better by this man, Aman let himself fall asleep, and it was a state of rest that came easier than it had in a while. 


	2. Two Steps Forward, One Step Back

_"I did not know how to reach him, how to catch up with him..._

_The land of tears is so mysterious.”_

\- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

Kartik woke to Aman’s absence and the disheartening thing was that sometime in the past few weeks he had gotten used to it. He had come to expect it, as part of his slowly crumbling relationship with the other man. 

What made it hurt more, this time around, was that last night had him convinced that they would be moving forward. Had him convinced that they were slowly rebuilding what was broken, one small step at a time. 

But the empty bed, the lukewarm space beside him said otherwise. 

It was in moments like these that found himself missing the nights when he and Aman would wake up, a mass of tangled limbs, his face buried in the crook of Aman’s neck, savouring his skin with every movement, savouring his smell with every breath. Kartik missed his touch, his lips, his eyes, he missed everything. 

For the last few weeks, they had slept in this bed like two strangers. Not like lovers, or even friends. 

He supposed he could put it towards tiredness, towards working long hours, to Aman’s ever-increasing study load. He could always say they did not have time for each other. That, however, would be a lie, and they both knew it. Even on their bad days, they would be able to find small comfort in little gestures, small touches. They used to be able to find the time despite everything.

_And we’ll do it again. We can try again. We will keep trying. We have to._

They had gone through so much together. Braved a storm and won. Surely, surely it would not all go to waste. Surely the scars left behind from their battle would one day heal. If only it didn’t feel like they were reopening old wounds over and over again.

Kartik rose from the bed. 

He used to like winter mornings, especially on weekends. Mostly because he could spend them snuggled up beside Aman in the sheets relishing his warmth. Now he had come to despise them, he was always left, cold, bereft and alone.

Throwing the quilt off his body, Kartik braved the winter air despite the rising goosebumps on his skin. He went to his wardrobe.

His hands went instinctively to the one garment he would know anywhere in the world.

He pulled out his a creme coloured fluffy sweater. His favourite. What he liked to call his comfort sweater for obvious reasons. He’d had it for years. It had been there since he was eighteen, the last time he had let his father lay a hand on him. The year had been 2006 and had earned a scholarship to study Arts in Delhi. He had not told his father or brother. 

He had simply packed a duffle bag with his essentials and a handful of cash two weeks before college started and told them he was leaving. They had not said a word. They had not even been surprised. They did not try to stop him. And in a way that was what had hurt the most. The fact that they did not seem to care. 

He remembered taking the bus to Chandigarh from his village in Hoshiarpur. He remembered the gentle trickle of rain, the smell of petrichor and cheap fuel. He had not let himself weep until he reached Chandigarh itself. 

It had been a cold afternoon much like this one and in his hastiness to get away he had forgotten to pack his jacket. He had walked shivering through the rain in the new city wondering whether the dampness at his cheeks was from his tears or the rain. He had felt cold, shattered, empty. 

He had sought the comfort of a clothes store. His train was supposed to arrive in an hour or so and he had thought it best to wait out that hour in a warm place. It was then that he had seen it. The sweater. He could still remember the way it felt on his body when he had put it on for the first time, over his cold tired limbs. It had given him warmth and comfort where his family could not. 

And it had been his constant ever since.

It was now worn around the edges, a little looser than it had been. In the last few years when his and Aman’s relationship had gotten a little more steady, he found he did not have to wear it as often as he used to. Aman’s arms had the same effect. 

But seeing as he no longer had Aman’s arms, the sweater would have to do for today. 

He let it slide over his skin feeling its familiar softness. It put him a little at ease, the same he had felt that first time in Chandigarh. The smell of all the perfumes he had used from his college years until now mingled into one distinct scent. It reminded him of the man he had once been, and the man he was today. 

Now a little at ease, he started to ponder breakfast. There was a low growl in his stomach. The rajma chawal that Aman had so lovingly cooked the night before had clearly been spent. Aman had probably already eaten, devouring a whole mug of coffee as he was wont to in the mornings. A habit he had picked up as an adolescent when used to study for hours on end.

As Kartik walked towards the living room, ruminating on what to eat his mind also wandered to how he could possibly make amends to Aman. To bridge the gap between them. Not all was lost, surely. He remembered the way he had held Aman’s hand last night and how it had stayed there for the whole meal. 

They were only moving forward from this. 

He was sure of it.

_“If there is to be reconciliation, first there must be truth.”_

\- Timothy B. Tyson

Waking up at sunrise was a habit that Aman didn’t think would come back to him but really, the quality of sleep was quite reliant on one’s peace of mind. For a while now, he’d found himself yanked out of a dream at some ungodly hour and it would be a while before he could fall asleep once more. Tonight, though, he found that Kartik’s proximity and their relaxed evening had done wonders for his mental and emotional state. Not knowing what the new day would bring, however, made him doubt if this would last or leave as fast as it had arrived.

Surprisingly, Kartik’s grip on Aman’s hand hadn’t disappeared overnight and it was quite the task to extract himself without waking his partner up. Quelling the urge to run a hand over his soft - as - a - duck down - hair, Aman decided to get a headstart on the task at hand. He didn’t have a concrete plan in place (what’s new?) but knew he had to start _somewhere_.

However, before embarking on Mission Kartik ko Manao, Aman knew there was something else to tackle. It was on seeing his backpack in the landing that he remembered it was to do with the administrative concerns, which he absolutely despised. To get it done, he’d require some official documents which Aman vaguely recalled having kept locked away in one of the drawers of their wardrobe.

On pulling open the drawer, a langruous creak echoed through the room and he winced. The manila file was easy enough to locate and he decided to take his laptop and all of this to their living room. It would not do for the clacking of keys to awaken a man so early when a good deal of rest was in order.

With an unhealthy amount of coffee in his system, Aman had wrapped up the otherwise mind-numbing task within half an hour and it was as he was recategorising his documents in the file that he came across something unexpected. It had escaped his notice before but with all this, Aman had managed to bring with him an unrelated sheet of paper, unofficial by the looks of it. Yet, clearly, it had been important, having been placed in that drawer.

Aman saw no harm in unfolding the creased and worn sheet and on seeing the title, his heart skipped a beat. The familiar, lively scrawl that Aman adored read “Kartik’s Singh’s Epic Ever Growing Bucket List”. Before he could go any further down the page, he heard footsteps and scrambled to hide it from view. He’d get back to it later - the few words that had caught his eye would likely not allow him to forget. He winced as the rush of shoving it into the file crushed it further. Aman didn’t have the liberty to check for any rips as he snapped it shut and pushed it to the other end of the table.

He hadn’t been doing anything wrong in the first place so why was his heart racing? 

_“Resentment is like drinking poison_

_and waiting for the other person to die.”_

\- Carrie Fisher

Kartik walked into the living room only to see Aman hurriedly closing a manilla folder and pushing it aside. Kartik could see him try to relax himself, try to act casual but when his eyes met Kartik’s they seemed as guilty as charged. 

“What are you hiding?”

The words had slipped out automatically. Kartik could not hide the accusation in his voice. He could not hide the venom, the slow poison that had been coursing through him in the last two weeks. He could feel it rise, bile in his words. Bitter as they had never been before. He had never been angry at Aman. Not like this. The anger that he had felt before had been short bursts of flame quickly tempered. This was slow, simmering and far more deadly. 

“Nothing,” said Aman quickly looking down at his feet. 

“Then why are you so fidgety?”

Aman did not answer him, it was almost as if he could not. For a while, they stared at each other, neither knowing what to say.

Kartik tried to settle the rage in him to let it go. But he could not for underneath his rage was a certain pain. A pain he had never felt before, a pain he did not know how to handle. Aman had always been honest with him, sometimes brutally so. In the early years of their relationship, it used to be a point of contention between them, but over time he had come to appreciate it. 

If Aman was hiding something now, Kartik must have fucked up big time. 

A part of him knew all this distance was his fault but another part of him did not want to acknowledge the severe impact his actions had had. Surely, surely it was not that bad.

Aman frowned as he fingered the manilla folder nervously. “It’s just admin stuff.”

“Right” the word came out doubtful and Aman knew it.

“Why do you care so much?” he asked.

“Why shouldn’t I care?” Kartik retorted. “How can I not worry if you start hiding shit like you’re 12 years old and your dad caught you watching a porno?”

Aman reddened at mention of the childhood incident. However, there was more anger than embarrassment there. It had always been brought up in jest, _never_ used against him.

“What are you implying?” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Nothing.” said Kartik. His voice sounded childish in his own ears.

“It sure as fuck doesn’t sound like nothing to me.”

Kartik ignored him, talking to Aman now, continuing this conversation, would only make it worse. He needed to clear his mind. He needed to get out of the house. 

“I need to run some errands,” he announced.

“How long will it take?”

Perhaps Aman did not mean it that way, but Kartik did not like how he phrased it. As if he was meticulously counting the time they were spending apart. As if he were assessing him. As if he had somewhere better to be. Someone better to be with... as if he could stand Kartik no longer. 

Aman’s words, his tone, his actions lately had become almost like a hailstorm that left Kartik cold and drenched, much like that day he had left home for Chandigarh. He wrapped his arms around himself, bringing the texture of the sweater impossibly closer to his skin. He saw Aman wince at the gesture. The other man knew exactly what the sweater meant, exactly what his gesture meant.

He could read Aman’s eyes as if it were a book and he knew what Aman was thinking. 

_I failed._ His eyes seemed to say. And Kartik wanted to tell him otherwise. He wanted to bridge the gap between, rise from the pit they had thrown themselves into. But the darkness beckoned. The fall, after all, was always easier than the rise.

Kartik decided to hit back with a barb of his own.

“Why do you ask? Seeing someone behind my back?”

Aman rose, furious, the softness of his expression now hardened. If he were a king of old, Kartik was sure that at this moment Aman would have toppled mountains and burned cities to the ground. 

His anger told Kartik all he needed to know. His accusation was baseless. In truth, it always had been and Kartik had always known it. Aman was loyal and to a fault. His insult was unwarranted. His words were nothing short of cruel. But he was not in the mood to take it back. He was not in the mood to fight Aman. He didn’t have the strength to face Aman, not now, not after this.

He turned his back. He took the car keys and ran. 

_“Hope itself is like a star- not to be seen in the sunshine of prosperity,_

_and only to be discovered in the night of adversity.”_

\- Charles H. Spurgeon

The slam of their front door rang through their flat, the sound echoing in his ears. What had just happened? Surely, he’d been imagining things? A quick pinch to the arm told him that this wasn’t the case. And why did he have to be so curt? It was only as he played back his terse question that Aman noticed the undercurrent fear, the pain. 

It didn’t excuse the accusation, of course not. But Aman could see, as much as it hurt to admit, that his own behaviour hadn’t been reassuring. He’d retaliated in kind, giving it back to Kartik in a way that only worsened the rift. 

Now, Kartik had just...left. Suddenly, this rift felt like a ravine. One wrong move and all this would turn to nothing, dreams of a future _together_ would turn to dust between his fingertips. When had things gotten so acrid between them? For Kartik to have flung such an accusation at him...no. Kartik can’t be faulted. _Aman’s_ patience, his coherence had flown out the window the moment they needed it most. This one was on him.

Aman had been the one to blindside Kartik, put everything first but the _one_ thing, the one individual that mattered. What Kartik had been wearing was indisputable evidence.

The sweater. One the taller man had dubbed his comfort sweater for very obvious reasons. It gave him comfort when he felt like nothing, _no one else_ could. When he felt that Aman couldn’t. The well-worn garment had spoken volumes and it brought tears to Aman’s eyes to realise just how _badly_ he’d fucked up. He’d put his selfish interests above all else, when really, he should have been giving Kartik’s wishes equal importance.

Yet again, he’d failed to fulfil one of the basic vows of their marriage. The fire that had fuelled their declarations, Aman’s bravery, the sacred fire that had witnessed their marriage. The warm, comforting fire between them that had turned into a fiendfyre and now threatened to burn everything to mere ashes if he didn’t act _now_.

The taller man had drawn into himself and Aman had longed to wrap his arms around him. Apologise profusely, be comforting, not confrontational. The appearance of the sweater now shouldn’t have shocked him but that didn’t mean it hurt any less. Kartik had barricaded himself within his own arms, as if threatened by his words. As if he _feared_ what Aman would do,as if he dreaded what he would say.

As if Aman was the _enemy_.

That action, that garment had said more for Kartik than words themselves. It made him wince, the hurt in his eyes, Kartik’s desperate hold on the sleeves, the soft material undoubtedly better than his cutting words. Aman too, felt like they were barbed wire, cutting through the last of their defenses, bringing their carefully constructed fort to the ground.

For a moment, neither of them had said a word and it was in that deafening silence, when time seemed to stop that Aman realised something that further stoked the fire of guilt within him. He had _failed_ them both.

But then, the words that escaped Kartik’s mouth, seemingly unbidden, pulled him up short. It had been the final straw -the shock had rendered him speechless.

The glacial tone that Kartik had sent his way made Aman freeze in his place. He’d wanted to reach out to Kartik, do something to allay his fears, clear the doubt. But there had been a line drawn and an unspoken warning not to cross it. And for once, Aman had listened. His inaction had cost him so much already and this had evidently been the last straw.

But what could he do? Aman refused to believe that there was nothing to be done. He had to quash that fear for he knew if he fed into those thoughts, they’d erode all reason and hope. 

He had to make a list, get his priorities in order once more. And at the top of that list would be Kartik Singh.

The words he’d read only moments before this catastrophic argument flashed like a torchlight in his mind's eye. Suddenly, the path in front of him was illuminated and the hurdles that seemed like mountains felt like molehills now.

The answer was in the crumpled sheet hastily hidden away in the file on their coffee table. Though he could’ve done with the boost of attentiveness minutes ago, Aman felt the caffeine finally jolt his system enough to get his body to move.

He all but fell onto the sofa and threw open the file and pulled the sheet out, its bold title catching his attention immediately.

The first 13 items were outrageous yet so Kartik Singh that Aman shouldn’t have expected anything else. At each point, he could hear his husband’s lively narration for each event or aspiration and it made him grin so wide that his cheeks began to ache.

The aspiration at number 14, written in the neatest script imaginable, pulled him up short.

Aman hadn’t realised it then, the implication of Kartik’s declaration, but it made sense now. The undertone of relief in the affirmation that the final outcome had in fact ‘gone well, all things considered.’ But did he still believe that to be the case? From the looks of it, the looks of _him_ , Aman didn’t think so. And why should he? His family had hurt Kartik, _Aman_ had hurt Kartik and he didn’t know which was worse. Neither did he dare ask - he didn’t know if he could handle the answer.

Shaking himself slightly, Aman recentred himself to go through the rest of the list. Items 15 to 18 were nothing if not ambitious but the 19th entry made him blush. As if he hadn’t been an entirely willing participant. 

Lest he got even more distracted, Aman willed himself to focus. The twentieth entry was so sweet that Aman couldn’t help the soft smile that came onto his face, especially the last of the sublist.

How Aman longed to just escape the four walls that seemed to close in on him daily. Leave this life behind, if only for a while, and live in another world altogether. Not that he would think to leave Kartik behind... but would Kartik want him there with him? 

This was _Kartik’s_ list of goals, the things he wanted to achieve in life. Where a few months ago Aman wouldn’t have hesitated to say that Kartik considered him a part of his life, now he just wasn’t sure. They couldn’t change the past but did Kartik see a future with Aman beside him?

For all he knew, Kartik had already vacated the space and was just waiting for all this to end, wedding vows be damned.

Was there anything worth fighting for? 

The presence of tears blurred his vision and his clenching of the already battered sheet served to crumple it further. Sudden desperation clung to him, igniting his very soul with a renewed fervour. No. He _couldn’t_ give up. Kartik hadn’t and neither should he, not when it mattered most.

There had to be some way to veer back onto the right path, the _same_ path.

The expanding balloon of tension in his chest threatened to suffocate Aman till his gaze fell on a particular section of the list. No... perhaps _this_ would work.

He’d found the answer with Kartik himself. It bore the question: Was Aman willing to give this one last shot? And if so, would Kartik Singh agree to as well?

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dhyan didn't want to write the notes. so like hi. All knives are warranted. And yeah we extended the fic.


	3. My Pride (My Achilles Heel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi so we know that we haven’t updated in three months, no we haven’t broken up as you can clearly see (whether that remains the same for Karman who knows). We have been busy with uni and exams + this chapter is emotionally weighted and crucial for the plot.
> 
> We hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> (translations in bold)

_ I will create red in a world  _

_ that often appears black and white. _

\- Terry Tempest Williams

  
  


Kartik Singh was not the best driver to grace planet Earth, indeed Aman often likened his driving to that of a chipmunk trying to steer the Titanic (a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad idea if you were wondering). Kartik often found the comparison ironic considering that it was  _ Aman  _ who was the shorter of the two. Besides he did not think he was  _ that _ terrible as a driver. He hadn’t died yet, in all these years, surely that counted for something, didn’t it?

By all logic, as of now, he should have been more reckless with his driving, much more prone to danger due to his rage, anger and general state of melancholy. Surprisingly, however, those emotions helped him focus on the road ahead, mostly because he did not want to think about everything he had said, he did not want to remember Aman’s shocked hurt face. He wanted none of it. 

And as a result he was the safest he had ever been, jacked up on a crazy cocktail of emotions, driving through the crowded streets of Delhi. 

In the end, he managed a half-decent curbside parking in front of a flower shop, leaning back against the headrest of the car seat, he let it all came back to him. Every fucking word every expression. He had to come to terms with it sooner or later and usually, it was better to rip the fucking bandaid off.

All he could see was Aman’s face before him on the verge of tears and he could feel the phantom urge to go and embrace him. 

But he couldn’t. Not now, not when he had stormed out of their apartment and had practically accused him of infidelity. Not when he was nursing his wounded pride. 

He had never accused Aman of  _ that.  _ Not even in the early tentative stages of their relationship. To do that he had always known was a direct insult to Aman’s character. It was too base, to below him to even consider seriously. Yet Kartik had done it. He had flung that accusation at his face and he had not even apologised for it. 

He regretted it, saying those words, of course, he did. His words were like an arrow at a bow. Once they were released you could not readjust your aim. You could only hope that they would not wound unnecessarily. He would have done anything to take them back, but he knew that was hopeless. Besides Kartik had come to find he had a terrible sense of pride, it was a thing Aman often said, that could propel him to mythical proportions or would wound him at his Achilles heel.

Even if he wanted to take them back, apologise, his pride would not let him, not yet.

Indeed there was a part of him, a small irritating part of him that continued to tell him that it was not his fault. Not truly. Yes, his accusation had been unwarranted, but Aman  _ was  _ hiding something from him, that was what had caused the altercation. Aman would never do that, he would never lie to him. It was not the Aman Kartik had known. 

The Aman he had known would have told him outright, if his love ever waned, if he wanted to leave, he would say it. It was not as if Aman was willing to share everything, no there were definitely parts of him that remained securely his own, but Aman did not keep them a secret, he did not deny their existence. They were simply things he could not disclose, boxes you knew were there but could not look into to take in their contents. 

Aman was not open but he was honest. So this, this dishonesty, this hiding, this sneaking around scared Kartik.

The fear crawled through him, through his veins, seeping out into every part of his body. It was an old fear, a fear that seemed to stem from his childhood. Stemmed from the moment his mother died, stemmed from the moments his father would leave him bloodied and bruised on the floor of the forge. 

It had a name. 

Abandonment.

He hated the loneliness. It was stifling, maddening whenever it entered his life. It threatened to shake the foundations of everything that he considered good within him. When he was alone, he felt himself to be more in touch with his monstrous side.

If Aman left him, he was not sure what he would do. The thought was too painful, too terrible to consider. Aman was all the family he had now. His father was a nightmare, his brother a shadow. Sure, he had Devika but she could not always be there. 

Aman was different.

Aman was family, he was a friend, he was a lover. 

It was hard to find all three things in one person. But Kartik had. And he sure as fuck did not want to let go.

He had invested too much into this, into them, realigned his whole purpose because of Aman. It was not to say that his life depended completely on Aman, no. But he had tried, he had pushed himself to improve, to be a better person because he wanted to do right by his lover. If Aman left he would feel as if all of it had been for naught and he did not want to go back to being the Kartik he used to be, the scared stupid reckless useless piece of shit.

He still remembered that night at the club when had first met him. He did not like going out by himself, but that night, the nightmares had gotten too much. He had decided to sneak out of his dorm, comfort sweater secure under his leather jacket, to a gay club, that Devika had once shown him, one that he rarely visited (being gay and having internalised homophobia wasn’t exactly the best thing to live with). 

He had not been sure what he was going to do there, whether he was going to get drunk, dance the night away, or spent the night in a stranger’s arms. He would have taken anything if it meant that he wouldn’t have to revisit the terror of his nightmares. He had expected to hate himself thoroughly afterwards, except that never happened. 

That night happened to be the best night of his life (it was even better than the first time he and Aman had made love in Aman’s rented accommodation after their fifth date). 

It seemed some divine power had orchestrated a miracle. And that miracle had come in the form of a short man barely over 5’5”, wearing an old Indian cricket team jersey, scowling into his glass of whiskey. It almost looked as if someone had dragged him here (Kartik for one would never wear a cricket jersey to a club). Kartik had seen him on campus before, he knew his name, Aman Tripathi, they had shared a few classes together and Kartik would have been lying if he said he didn’t have a slight crush on him.

He still remembered the first words to him at the club.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he remembered smiling then. “Aman right?”

Aman’s eyes had shot up to him and in an instant, his scowl had transformed into something more pleasant, an expression Kartik remembered thinking he wouldn’t mind seeing for the rest of his life. 

“Uh huh, and you’re Kartik from that poetry unit yeah?” he had grinned. “Your poem was really good, I don’t think I’d forget it.”

His heart had warmed then, to think someone actually paid attention to the damn fever dream of a poem he had been made to read out in class. He had not been particularly proud of it, it wasn’t his best, but the fact that Aman had clearly liked it made him see it in a different light. It was a pattern that would become more frequent in their lives together, Aman always managed to weave landscapes, words and events into a completely different tapestry than what Kartik would first see it as.

“What brings you here?” he remembered asking, feeling his cheeks go red. 

Aman rolled his eyes “My friend, Jaz, said I needed to get laid.”

“As in Jaspreet Bhumra?” He was a tall buff guy, who played basketball, another one of Kartik’s many crushes. He had always assumed he was straight, most of Kartik’s crushes were. He never expected Jaspreet to frequent a gay club, let alone know that one even existed. “Is he-”

“Bi,” Aman supplied. “Do you need me to wing-man for you? I know him quite well.”

It had been easy talking to Aman, though they barely knew each other then. They talked more so as friends that night than two people who had met at a club. At the mention of Aman’s motorbike, Kartik had perked up.

“I’ve always wanted a bike,”

He remembered so clearly the gleam in Aman’s eyes at that moment. “Do you want to take a ride?”

Kartik did not remember saying yes but he must have accepted (it was probably the gin, and if he were a little more sober himself he probably would have said no, Aman had downed two shots of whiskey during their conversation). The next thing he knew was spending the night roaming Delhi’s streets, Kartik terrified (though he would never admit to it), clinging onto Aman. 

During the ride, they had shared earphones (the wires kept getting tangled and it kept falling out of their ears, unfortunately, AirPods had not been invented yet). When  _ Yeh Dosti _ started playing they both sang at the top of their lungs, though they had only known each other for a night. 

They showed each other their favourite spots, Aman a niche theatre, where they watched Sholay, Kartik, a nice street stall that sold the best pani puri. Aman even showed him how to shoplift and never get caught (a skill that Kartik thought useful to have in one’s arsenal but not necessarily the most moral).

In the end, when Aman had dropped him off to his dorm Kartik had felt it in his heart sink. He did not want the night to end. It was then that he knew Aman was the one he had been waiting for. The night had been nothing short of magical, a fairytale, or rather the start of one. Every moment of their night had whispered the words  _ once upon a time _ . It seemed Aman felt it too because for when he looked at Kartik he seemed more than a little abashed. 

A question hung between them, a question that was both dangerous and beautiful.

Kartik had been the one to clear the air, take the plunge for both of them.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow six?”

“You have a car?”

“Nah but I can get an Ola. Remember to dress fancy, if you can.”

Aman had bit his lip “I thought you had a crush on Jaz. The plan was to be your wingman after all.”

“Plans change,” Kartik had said. “I like you better.”

Aman smiled “Alright, it’s a date then.”

The next day Kartik had gone to the very same flower shop he was standing in front of now. He had bought Aman a huge bouquet of flowers. They had been roses. As bold as summer and as red as blood. So big that when he handed them to Aman, it had wholly dwarfed the other man (who in truth was not very tall, to begin with). 

He would do anything to go back to then, to go back to simpler times. Anything. 

But to do that, to even retain a little of that magic, he needed to swallow his pride. He needed to apologise. It would be remiss of him, he knew if he did not at least try to make amends. And somehow he did not think roses would do this time.

His eyes caught onto a bunch of poppies displayed, like a stolen massacre, outside the flower shop. In college, Aman had gone through a floriography phase. From his lover’s meticulous notes he had learned more about various flowers and their meanings than he ever cared for. But there had been one flower that had struck a chord.

The poppy. The maker of opium, a symbol of sleep, peace and death. Remembrance of war. Forgetfulness. And he wanted so bad to forget all the destruction they had wrought each other. 

He picked two meanings. Remembrance of war. He wanted them to remember their war of words. And peace, he wanted this remembrance to bring about peace.

Kartik got out of his car and entered the flower shop. He did not need to spend hours deciding, as he had done all those years ago, exactly which flowers he wanted, in which arrangement. The choice was simple enough this time, a simple bouquet of blood-red poppies. Nothing more nothing less.

When they were arranged and paid for, Kartik laid them carefully on the backseat of the car and drove back home.

_ Orange is red brought nearer to humanity by yellow. _

_ - _ Wassily Kandinsky

The doorbell rang and Aman was out of his seat in a shot, abandoning the loose orange thread he’d been picking at for the past 10 minutes. Kartik had left in a whirlwind of emotions. Aman would never not worry about him on the road as the driver but with something like this preceding the choice to  leave  drive, Aman’s fear had multiplied tenfold. Why in God’s name had he not stopped him? What state would he be in, was he okay? Oh - what if it wasn’t Kartik at all? Oh gosh - 

Pulling open the door with more force than was probably necessary, any rebuke died before it reached his tongue. Kartik was okay, not that he could see him at first, face hidden behind the gift in his hands. What on Earth?

Aman couldn’t seem to fix his gaze on one beautiful thing alone. The poppies were too bright in their colour, the red loud and demanding his attention. But the expression on Kartik’s face was something he was finding increasingly difficult to ignore. He regretted every single word but couldn’t deny that they’d ventured into unchartered territory with that argument.

Could it get worse than that? While he hoped not.. Aman couldn’t shake the wave of foreboding that swept over him.

Looking at the proffered flowers pulled Aman back to the time when they’d first started dating. Kartik had turned up at his doorstep with a vibrant bouquet that masked even him completely (yes, even the hair). Aman had noticed a note tucked away between the flowers and to this day, he remembered what had been written. It had made him smile and Aman couldn’t deny that the repetition of the gesture warmed his heart ever so slightly.

Then, Kartik had donned a smile so wide, Aman believed it could rival the sun. Now, however, there was no smile in sight, only a slight pout and eyes filled with remorse. Aman remembered rushing forward to embrace him then, but now? Aman could barely look him in the eye, let alone close the space between them. What the hell was he supposed to do? They were a beautiful bunch and he didn’t want them to wilt but.. neither was he particularly inclined to accept them, well aware of Kartik’s intention.

With each passing moment, the longer he took to accept - was he that predictable? - Aman noted Kartik’s earnest expression faltering. What was stopping him from accepting the sentiment behind the gift? It was a start, he knew that much. But in the face of those accusations.. it felt too insincere.

For these flowers weren’t anything ordinary. They were poppies. Utilised to produce opium, most commonly associated with sleep, peace and death. A remembrance of war. This seemed to be a peace offering of sorts. As if asking Aman to conveniently forget the storm he’d been put through from the moment he’d read the bucket list.

The argument. The agony on hearing his accusation, the apprehension as he waited for Kartik to return. Forget the expression on his face, the way he’d turned inwards, away from Aman.

Kartik had meant what he’d said - the man was never one to mince his words. He was honest, to a fault. And really, who could call him wrong? The old Aman, pre-September, would have forgiven a fight in a heartbeat but.. this was new, this wasn’t a fight, this was them playing with fire.

So what if he didn’t mean them now, if he was sorry?

There  _ had  _ been a moment when he’d given weight to the impossible idea. He’d believed  _ it  _ and not Aman. As if Aman hadn’t shown him time and again that whatever he was so scared of wouldn’t happen. As if Aman wasn’t enough. There was something that was eluding him entirely but Kartik had to tell him what he was missing.

Aman could hardly figure it on his own.

But how dare he?

How  _ dare  _ Aman think so much of himself? He was in no position to ascribe blame, or expect Kartik to explain himself. He very nearly  _ had  _ done the unthinkable. So could he really fault the other man for what he had conjured up? There was no room for his indignance here. Kartik had once again taken up the mantle of becoming the braver, better man. The least Aman could do was accept the fucking flowers, even if he didn’t have the words to express the muddle in his head. Neither did he want to, lest he worsen the situation.

He’d barely managed a battle, Aman didn’t think he had it in him to fight a war of words. He wouldn’t survive this.

Evidently, Kartik hadn’t forgotten what they’d just endured and if this was an indication that they should put that behind them, make their peace with it all, then who was he to argue? It wasn’t as if he was the one getting nightmares, struggling to sleep, to put his mind to rest.

No, Aman was fine. At least, that’s what he’d desperately tried to tell himself. They were going to be fine. They had to. Surely this wasn’t the end? A way to tie up all loose ends? Even so, a part of Aman was waiting, for what he couldn’t quite guess, but still. He listened to that small voice at the back of his mind and chose to respond.

Quietly, he accepted the offering, his breath hitching at the contact of Kartik’s hand against his. He couldn’t even bring himself to smile and that caused Kartik’s brow to furrow, something Aman noticed as he turned away to find a place to put the flowers. He felt Kartik’s gaze on his back as they moved in tandem, him to the shelf and Kartik to the sofa.

His gaze caught on an unassuming yellow vase that had been hidden behind all sorts of other things, eventually getting stowed away. He came to a stop in front of the cabinet, pulling it out and placing it centre stage. He couldn't, however, bring himself to put the flowers in it. That was the last step, so why was he hesitating - it wasn’t too difficult, was it?

Fiddling listlessly with the stems, Aman waited.

_ All looks yellow to a jaundiced eye.  _

\- Alexander Pope

Aman stood waiting before him. When Kartik said nothing he sighed, shrugged and went to the cabinet to take out a vase, in order to place the poppies in water before they wilted. Kartik stood by and watched wondering where he had gone wrong. Wondering if the poppies were a mistake. He was about to say something along the lines of an apology when Aman took out a vase. 

It was an ugly thing, blocky, and if vomit ever had a yellowy hue it would be the exact same shade as this vase. Aman did not like the vase from an aesthetic angle any more than Kartik but neither of them had ever had the heart to throw it out. 

It had been gifted to them by an old hookah smoking dadhi named Henri (short for Henriette). She and Kartik had always been at odds ever since he had moved to Delhi. Surprisingly it had nothing to with the fact that he was gay (according to her the fact that he was out and proud of it was his only redeeming quality), no rather it was because her house had been subject his various pranks during his college years (not his fault but that was another story entirely). 

Despite this Kartik liked to think that she did not hate him entirely, he had been ninety-nine percent sure she had a soft spot for him.

The final one percent was confirmed when he and Aman had finally decided to move in together. They had been walking down the streets of Delhi, hand in hand, having just made up after arguing over which style of sofa they wanted (they chose a white one in the end). Aman had just gotten a little more comfortable with small public displays of affection such as these and on a seemingly abandoned road, he had leaned over and rested his head on Kartik’s shoulder. 

It had been one of Kartik’s favourite moments. A rare beautiful moment where they could pretend that they wouldn’t be jailed for acting like this in public. 

“Kartik?” came the familiar voice of Henri.

Aman had pulled away in an instant, his hand leaving Kartik’s. The moment was gone. Kartik understood his fear at that moment. He wished it could have been otherwise. Even if  _ he _ knew Henri would not say anything, Aman had not met her yet. Both of them had turned to the direction of the old woman who was sitting at the front of her house, various household objects littered across the front yard. 

After a brief conversation they found out Henri and her grandson and that this chaotic mess was in fact a garage sale. 

“Take it,” she had said, handing the ugly block yellow vase to him. “It suits you.”

He had always loved her backhanded compliments and had always responded in turn. But somehow this time he could not bring himself to do so today, the moment had made him tear up. He had never gotten as much as a penny from his father, and here was an old woman, a woman he had terrorised with pranks from the start, who was presenting him with a gift. He had embraced her then.

When she pulled away, she glanced at Aman, who was playing with her small grandson and gave Kartik a knowing smile.

“Uss ladke nu nedeh rakh. Pehli bhar apne zindagi mein kuch sahi kiya tune.”  **(Keep that boy close. This is the first time in your life you’ve done something right.)**

“Kya?”  **(What?)**

“I’m glad you got laid” she said curtly switching to perfect English. 

He had never expected those words to ever come out of the old woman’s lips but considering it was Henri he had not been too surprised. He had thanked her and the two of them had gone back home and placed the vase at the very back of their cabinet.

They’d never taken it out since. Acknowledging it was best to keep in storage, out of sight from others, it was not entirely aesthetically pleasing. Despite it’s dreadful look, there was a sentimentality behind that Kartik valued even now. Had Aman so quickly forgotten their vow to leave it be? Had he forgotten what the vase meant to Kartik? Had he forgotten how sacred it was?

It had become a symbol of their love. Aman had met Henri for the first and last time and in that, it was like the passing of a baton. She gave Aman her blessing in the form of that ugly arse vase. It showed her recognition of their relationship's beauty. 

And Kartik did not want something so personal to be aired so publicly.

He seethed, he raged knowing all too well he was being irrational. 

Aman turned to him. As if he were waiting for something.

An apology, Kartik realised. He was waiting for an apology.

He was not sure if he could truly give one in his state of mind be he tried anyway.

“Aman?”

“Mmm?”

“I…” he took in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

Aman’s eyes turned to him. It was so strange seeing his eyes turn to steel rather than the pools of warmth he was used to.

“Sorry for what?” he asked.

“For being an ass” Kartik found himself saying. “I fucked up. I shouldn’t have said it, any of it.”

“Yeah, you shouldn’t have.”

He said nothing more. Was that it? Was that all Aman had to say to him? And if it was, why did he have to be so cold about it?

“I wouldn’t have said anything,” said Kartik. “If you hadn’t been-”

“I hadn’t been  _ what _ ?” hissed Aman. “Cheating? You know that I would never do that. You can’t just accuse me of it so casually like it’s no big deal. Because it’s a huge fucking deal for me!”

He knew Aman was right. He knew he himself was in the wrong. But something nagged him even now. It was something that wanted him to put himself on the side of righteousness in this situation. His pride had not entirely been swallowed, it demanded to be heard and be seen. It demanded to be his downfall. And fell into its trappings.

“I wouldn’t have said anything if you had not started hiding whatever the fuck it was you were hiding.”

Aman opened his mouth as if to speak but closed it promptly, and turned his attention on filling the vase with water so he could place the poppies in them. This only served to heighten Kartik’s suspicions and only served to feed the monster of pride and self-righteousness, destroying any apology, anything that could heal. 

Why would Aman not look him in the eye?

“What are you hiding?” Kartik asked softly. 

Aman did not look up from the tap 

“I’m not  _ fucking _ someone else,” Aman said sharply.

“That wasn’t the question and I just apologised for  _ that _ ,” said Kartik. “I know you would never…” he trailed off but Aman had picked up on his meaning anyway.

“You can’t bring yourself to say it but you weren’t above  _ thinking _ it!” snapped Aman practically slamming the now full vase on the counter, water sloshing over. “How the hell am I supposed to take that Kartik?”

“I don’t know...I…” he looked up at Aman, his features were constantly flickering between anger and pain, as if he couldn’t decide on one alone. 

But anger was rising in Kartik too. He was trying to make amends, trying to reason with him, show him his own side of the story, why was Aman being so difficult? Why would he not listen? Why could he not let go of his own pride?

_ He’s not the proud one here  _ a part of Kartik whispered.  _ It’s you. _

“I’m trying…” said Kartik. “I want to do right by you but you’re not making it easy.”

“And you really think fucking poppies are going to fix everything?”

No, he did not think that. He had wanted it to be a  cause for conversation. Anything to elicit a response. Granted, he'd been hoping it would be a lot better than this but it was something. The only problem was, Kartik didn't know what the next step should be . Why was it that everything he was doing today seemed to be the wrong thing? The wrong words? The wrong actions?

Was this his doom, to forever be the one out of the two of them to fuck it up for both of them?

He remembered Allahabad then. 

He was the one who had convinced Aman to go, he had been the one to pressure Aman into a kiss in the carriage, the one who turned up to his childhood home and made things infinitely worse than it should have been. He will never forgive himself and in truth sometimes he felt the beating that Shankar had given him was only a fraction of what he had deserved. 

He knew it was a stupid thought. He knew that if Aman could read his mind at this moment he would berate him for it. But none of that could stop him from thinking it, from feeling it to be the truth.

He had been driven by his own ego, his own fucked up sense of narcissism and Aman had been caught in the crossfire.

“Kartik, are you even listening to me?”

Kartik snapped himself out his thoughts “Aman…”

“No, don’t bother. It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine!” Kartik was shouting now. “It never was.”

“Say what you mean.” Aman’s voice was dangerously low now but he was too far gone, well past that point. 

“I think you and I both know exactly what we’re talking about.”

“Allahabad,” said Aman evenly. “Is in the past.”

_ Then why is its shadow still haunting us? _

“If it's in the past then why do I still feel the bruises,” he asked. “Why do I....”

“Why do you  _ what _ ?”

Kartik shook his head. Going ahead with this conversation was only going to make things worse. Aman was right. Allahabad was in the past. He thought of his mother’s stories then, one story in particular. 

The story of Milkha Singh, the Flying Sikh, a hero of sorts in Kartik’s childhood (Bhaag Milka Bhaag now being his favourite movie second only to Sholay). The old athlete’s tale had become a part of Punjabi folklore, a world champion, an athlete who could have won gold in both Olympics, but had not been able to by his own destructive tendencies and an inability to let go of the past. He had eventually overcome it, come to terms with it.

Kartik needed to do the same, let go of the past and forge on. The shadow will go away eventually as it did for Milkha. He just needed to keep running, keep moving forward.

“Kartik, say it.”

“No as you said we need to move on…”   
  


“God fucking dammit Kartik just say it!  Ab kehna baaki hai kuch? Aur agar hai bhi toh toh chup kyun ho? Do teen zakhm aur seh sakta hoon main, tu meri chinta mat kar . BOL!”  **(Do you want to say something else? And if you want to, if there’s more left to say, why are you quiet? Don’t worry about me, I can take 2 or 3 more wounds. Go on!)**

In his anger Kartik found himself reverting back to Punjabi “Accha, hun hero sheero banan da shaunk baneya tera? Eh kithe si jadho tere baap neh danda chakeya, jadho mainu teri lodh si? Das mainu saala darakal.”  **(Nice, so now you want to play the hero? Where was this bravery when your father picked up the stick when I needed you? Tell me you fucking coward.)**

The next thing Kartik heard was a loud crash, the ugly yellow vase shattering against the counter, practically crushed beneath Aman’s hand. The shards fell to the floor and it was here that Kartik realised that they were covered in blood. Aman’s blood.

He could feel the wrath still in his veins, his muscles taut, the sight of the blood however seemed to lessen the anger. He felt what Achilles must have felt when he had seen Patroclus’s body laid before him. He must have felt all his pride seep away and sink to the ground at the sight of his dead lover’s body as Kartik’s did at the sight of Aman’s blood.

The realisation must have come to him as he sat weeping clutching Patroclus’s body to his chest on the sandy shores of Troy, that all this destruction was his fault. Borne from his own stubbornness. He went forward to take Aman’s hand to patch it up, to kiss it, to wipe away his tears, to do anything to help. But Aman’s fiery gaze stopped him.

“Chodo,” he hissed. “Toote cheezo ko kyun jodna?”  **(Leave it. Why fix something that is broken?)**

With that Aman left, leaving the broken bloodied vase along with the shards of Kartik heart that would not stop breaking.

_ “If it wasn't for the mist  _

_ we could see your home across the bay," said Gatsby.  _

_ "You always have a green light  _

_ that burns all night at the end of your dock." _

\- The Great Gatsby, F Scott Fitzgerald

Aman turned the lock of their door behind him. He let his head fall forward in defeat. This was it, he was spent. He’d gone and fucked up again. He’d left Kartik behind  _ again _ . Had he overstepped, really? And even if it had shocked him, it’s not like Aman had proved him wrong. 

Here they were, going in circles. Kartik was sorting out yet another mess whilst Aman hid away. Like a coward. And he was the one who’d dropped the damn thing to begin with. Fucking hell. He’d just.. watched everything fall apart and expected Kartik to sort it out.

Did that just happen? Aman would have said no in a heartbeat, ignore all that had transpired in just 5 minutes. It would be easy to forget if it didn’t  _ hurt  _ so much.

Kartik hadn’t let up on the scathing comment, each word cutting deeper till Aman could bear it no longer. It was as if he wasn’t Kartik anymore. He was a different man altogether, somehow, in the same way that Aman was no longer himself. He could hardly look in the green framed mirror mounted opposite him now, let alone the man he considered his other half.

His better half, even.

Granted, he’d  _ told  _ him not to worry about Aman’s feelings, that he could manage what was coming. But Aman hadn’t expected Kartik to be so careless - no. That was not the right word. So cruel. Yes. And it hurt like a  _ bitch  _ to see Kartik hurt himself to say those at all.

As if they'd been torn out of his mind, his soul, without his permission. 

Kartik’s expression had been haggard, utterly worn out but the anger had appeared to keep him upright and alive. This anger had emerged from a steadily growing pain, a wound he’d been attending to for what could have been days on end. Days that Aman had turned a blind eye, unseeing, inconsiderate.

He didn’t have it in him to face Kartik Singh. Not then and certainly not now. Aman was the cause of all this. His silence had cost him,  _ them _ , yet again. It's just that.. no. He couldn’t justify whatever the hell had just happened, even to himself. Just because he was hurting didn’t mean he had the right to ignore Kartik’s pain.

How could he claim to love ‘Yeh Dosti’ when he could barely uphold the promises of those lyrics? Kya ‘saath mein’ - he’d left Kartik alone then, when he’d need Aman most and he’d only gone and done it again today. It appeared that Aman could no longer stand by or in front of him.

He couldn’t completely justify what had happened only weeks ago either. He’d run away  _ for  _ Kartik but he didn’t know how to explain this to him. That situation had unravelled in what felt like seconds. He’d made peace with his fucking rebirth. That, he could have lived with. His father had felt alien to him then, but somewhere, Aman had convinced himself that it was out of love. A strange sort, but justified to him.

What Aman hadn’t been able to take was Kartik putting himself in the firing line for him.

Seeing his father pick up that fucking rod had broken him. That action overrode any shred of love Aman had imagined seeing - no, this felt a lot like hatred. A deep rooted hatred, a conviction. He’d been pushed aside, only to have Kusum help him to his feet. But honestly? He’d rather have stayed there, on the dusty ground.

Seeing Kartik stand there with a bravado that didn’t reflect in his eyes felt like someone had knocked him down with greater force than before.

But - oh God. To hear him yell in pain, writhe like that had killed him. Shankar Tripathi disowning him had been nothing in the face of that. Then.. he’d stopped, tired of meting out his warped form of justice. But Kartik had turned to him, waited and hoped. For Aman to give him strength. 

Something that he didn’t have a shred left of within himself so what did he have left to give to Kartik?

And what good would it have done?

Aman had known then that the decision had been in his hands. He couldn’t stop it, the damage had already been done. But he could hope for it not to go on any longer than it already had. And it hadn’t. Another 10 minutes of agony later, with Aman hearing every yell, muffled though they’d been, it was over. A tense silence had befallen the house then, no one daring to disturb the fragile thread that they clung to. His childhood room gave him a sanctuary of sorts.

They hadn’t touched a hair on Aman’s head but killed him all the same. Turned him hollow.

It was this same emptiness he saw in Kartik now. It was unnerving, to see a man so full of life so despondent now. But no.. this wasn’t something that had happened overnight. It was weeks in the making and it was Aman who hadn’t noticed, hadn’t seen what was in front of him the whole time. And now, they were paying the price for his prolonged negligence.

Fuck.

His mind was running in frantic circles and it wasn’t helping him. What he needed now was a sense of purpose, not revisiting past fuck ups. This was about now and the next immediate moment.

Taking a few deep breaths, Aman tried to calm himself down to the point where he could think, at least. There was literally no time to lose - should he let this go on any longer, Aman feared it would be the end. And that simply wouldn’t do. Now was not the time to be selfish. He had to take a leaf out of Kartik’s book and stand up for the both of them. But how?

Just then, he noticed a bracelet placed on his bedside table. Utterly simple and unassuming but invaluable for that very reason. He’d fallen in love with it that day and a little more than he already had been for Kartik. He loved him just the same now too, it was just a matter of  _ showing  _ him. Hopefully, Kartik would understand why he’d chosen to put it on now. Perhaps it was time to take a few steps back in order to ensure that the only path they’d tread now was forward.

Wiping away the tear tracks, Aman got to his feet and unlocked the door.

_ I want you I’ll colour me blue,  _

_ Anything it takes to make you stay,  _

_ Only seeing myself  _

_ When I’m looking up at you _

\- Troye Sivan, Blue

Kartik had taken a chair, he had placed it before the closed door of their bedroom where Aman sat on the other side. He could hear the other man’s sharp breath from the other side. He could almost hear the sadness, the anger, almost, but not quite. But Kartik wanted to do right by Aman so he had waited.

The moments had felt like an eternity. 

Finally, Aman had emerged, calm, almost diffident. Kartik had felt the familiar anger rise again. He felt the finite composure snap. How could he be so calm when Kartik was a goddamned fucking mess. 

“Tum theek ho?” Aman asked, awkwardly.  **(Are you alright?)**

“Tenu ki lagda?”  **(What do you think?)**

No, no, the bitterness should not be there. They should be working through it. Yet, it was hard to reign in the anger now that it had unleashed again. But he tried again. Their love was worth the fight wasn’t it? 

“Par je tu theek hai, phir main bhi theek” he said it softly, hoping Aman would respond in turn.  **(But if you’re okay, then I’m okay too.)**

“We should talk,” said Aman. 

“Chodo,” Kartik quoted bitterly. “Toote cheezo ko kyun jodna?”  **(Leave it. Why fix something that is broken?)**

Aman fidgeted with something at his wrist. Kartik looked down. It was a bracelet he had gifted Aman on their first anniversary as boyfriends, significant annoyances and partners in crime (Aman’s words, not his). It was a pretty thing simple, the silver chain fine and delicate, laden with sapphires of such a startling shade of blue, it could put the very ocean to shame. 

Seeing this, a symbol of their love and commitment calmed the rage that had roiled in Kartik. 

“Please,” whispered Aman.

It was a plea more than anything that made Kartik relent. 

“Bolo.” **(Speak)**

Aman took in a deep breath “Things haven’t been the same since Allahabad.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“Why?”

The question only served to infuriate Kartik further. “You’re asking me why. You were there. You know what happened.”

“You called me a coward,” said Aman calmly, through his bloodied, broken, bruised pride. Kartik supposed no man would ever want to be called a coward. But this empathy changed nothing. Aman continued “Why?”   
  


“Why? You’re asking me why?” Kartik laughed, no merriment in the sound, only misery.  “It was you who ran up the stairs and left! And you have the fucking gall to ask me why.”

The incident had festered in his mind for a while now. At first, he had been determined to give Aman the benefit of the doubt. For so long he told himself it did not matter. Aman had panicked. Aman had his reasons. Aman was, in his own way, protecting him. 

But that had not changed the fact that it had hurt when Aman had run, abandoned him to the wooden stick, the blood, the bruises and the wrath of Shankar Tripathi. It hurt so fucking goddamned much that Kartik had thought there could be no greater pain than the wound Aman had inflicted on his heart at the very moment.

He had always hated being alone and when he had left his whole being had been on autopilot. The only thought he had been able to register was a question he had been meaning to ask Aman for a while. He asked it now.

_ “Why did you leave me?” _

“I did what I did to protect you.” Said Aman still impossibly calm. 

“I could have died!” Kartik was shouting. “You left me and I was beaten until I was unconscious. Poorey body mein neel pad chukay the. In fact, Neil Nitin Mukesh, sab pad gaye the, Tab farak nahi pada tha lekin ab padta hai goddammit.” ( **My whole body had been left black and blue. In fact, Neil Nitin Mukesh, all of them! It hadn’t mattered then, but it does now, goddamit!)**

“ For fuck’s sake! You think I don't see their ghosts on you still? Do you think I’m that aloof? No, it's because I know you but I knew my father too.”

“What, you knew he would beat the living shit out of me?”

“That he would have fucking stopped if you hadn’t picked up the stick.” Aman had snapped. “That you would have kept picking it up as long as I was there. I didn’t want...I couldn’t let you go through with that, keep doing that to yourself…I couldn’t let Papa do that to you...”

It made sense, it made so much sense, but it still did nothing to heal the wound.

“Maybe you should have let him.”

Aman’s eyes met him and he said nothing.

“You deserve better than me,” said Kartik quietly. “You deserve someone who is whole. Some who’s not so riddled with so much baggage...you deserve someone who’s not a mess.”

_ A blue and purple pink sky _

_ would turn into a future filled _

_ with more colour than the human eye could see _

_ \-  _ blues and purple pink skies, Sargun Kaur 

Aman was struck dumb with that statement. Is that really how Kartik saw himself now? As scattered pieces, not a person? How could he possibly counter something he seemed to believe so sincerely? 

In the deafening silence, Aman’s phone rang. He saw Kartik wince at the words ‘Yeh Dosti’, cringe at ‘todenge’. Still, Aman couldn’t move. Whoever it was could wait till he’d found his footing, gotten a sense of direction. Where the fuck was he supposed to take this conversation? Yet, the caller was persistent and his phone rang once again.

Still, Aman kept his gaze fixed on the defeated man in front of him, watched as he recognised the sound for what it was. Aman’s ringtone. He’d changed it after their almost - kind of - shaadi and there had been no reason to change it. Those dark eyes flickered with doubt, switching between Aman’s pocket and his face, waiting.

Silence.

After the fourth ring, the call was cut short and there was a beat of silence. Then, his brother’s voice.

“Aman? Kya hum baat kar sakte hai tum se? Agar nahi bhi karni toh.. samajh sakte hai but.. please? I miss you”  **( Can I speak to you? If you don’t wish to, then I understand but..)**

That, Aman did not expect. Why was Keshav calling him now? Hesitantly, he unlocked his phone. Keshav’s grin seemed almost alien amidst the cloud of pain that seemed to suffocate them now. His contact name too, in a pleasant enough purple, contrasted the grey and black of the call screen.

His thumb hovered over the call button and finally, Aman got a slight nod from Kartik. He was ready. Reaching out to take hold of his wrist, Aman led them to their dining table and made Kartik sit down. Dragging their third chair closer, he sat down such that their knees touched and put the phone on the table.

The two rings they waited for felt like hours until Keshav’s hopeful voice echoed through the room. Aman could hear all the chaos on the other end vanish for a moment before it returned, albeit quieter. He tensed. Where exactly was he making this call from? He heard Kartik’s breath hitch and so, answered so as to not to arouse doubt.

“Haan, main hi hun. Kya hua, phone kyun kiya? Tu theek hai?”  **(Yes, it’s me. Why did you call? Are you okay?)**

He didn’t much care to ask after the rest, and it wasn’t exactly like they could accommodate for anyone else before they knew what state they were in themselves. The prolonged silence before a hushed ‘ji bhaiyya’ only heightened his apprehension, though he forged ahead. Aman asked about what he’d been up to before a loud call of his cousin’s name gave way to silence once more. What was all this really about?

First, it was Keshav.

Then, Champa chachi with an earnest question.

“Theek se khaa rahe ho na?”  **(Are you eating well?)**

Aman answered with an affirmative.

Then, Chaman chacha. Aman thought he saw a ghost of a smile flash across Kartik’s face then, but he couldn’t be too sure. The question was harmless enough, asking about work and the like - steering clear of anything ‘out of syllabus’ apparently.

“Chutti ki baat hui kya? Shayad Aman - ”. He was cut short by a yelp of pain and chachi shutting him up.  **(Any discussions on holidays (from work) Perhaps Aman - )**

Then Rajni, more subdued, somewhat hesitant too. A rushed ‘apna dhyan rakhna, gadhe’ before it was passed to someone else. Was Kusum visiting?  **(Take care of yourself, you fool)**

“Kaise ho, beta?”  **(How are you, son?)**

At the sound of his mother’s voice, Aman saw Kartik sit up. He hadn’t anticipated her presence, expecting his father to have made the decision for both of them (again). It was a simple enough question, so easy to lie and get away with but Aman had had enough of those to last 7 lifetimes. He let out a choked sound instead and saw Kartik gesture for him to relax.

“Hum theek hai, aunty ji. Aur aap?”  **(We’re fine, aunty. And yourself?)**

His voice hadn’t wavered in the slightest but Aman saw him look unsure. Unsure as to whether it was his place to talk on a call with Aman’s family. For him, they were still Aman’s alone and he didn’t know where he stood amongst strangers. Those who’d alienated him for so long. 

“Aman? Yeh teri awaaz ko - ek minute. Kartik? Tum hi ho na beta? Pehli baat, tum mujhe maa hi bulao. Dusri baat, tumne jhoot kyun kaha? Ab phirse jhoot mat bol, sacch sacch bata. Kya tum  _ dono  _ theek ho?

**(Aman? What’s happened to your voice - hold on. Kartik? This is you, right son? First things first, you should call me Mother. Secondly, why did you lie? And don’t lie again, tell the truth. Are you** **_both_ ** **okay?)**

“I -”

“Ji Mummy, hum theek hi hai, bas aapse itne din baat nahi hui na, isiliye..”

**(Yes, mum, we’re okay, it’s just that we hadn’t spoken to you in a while, so..)**

Aman hoped his love understood that it wasn’t meant for Sunaina Tripathi but him. They would be alright. Reaching out Aman rested his hand over Kartik’s hand, loosening his fist so he could lace their fingers together. Kartik’s gaze snapped up to meet his and though the tears Aman saw a hope so fierce that it startled him to see it turn to fear the moment their Maa’s voice changed. It was a harsh, urgent order.

“Kuch toh kaho, kuch zyaada nahi ho gaya?”

**(Say something at least, isn’t this too much?)**

Thinking it was meant for them, Aman tried to hide the confusion in his voice as he responded.

“Ky - ”. **(Wh - )**

“Kartik beta?”  **(Kartik, son?)**

Oh fuck.

That most definitely wasn’t Sunaina, no. That was Shankar Tripathi on the other end of the line. To say he was an unexpected participant of this conversation would be an understatement. Aman winced as Kartik’s hand squeezed his. With his free hand, he pushed the phone closer to his husband as he tried to find his voice. A few agonising moments later came his response, tight and controlled, shields back in place.

“Ji, uncle ji?”  **(Yes, Uncle (sir)?)**

Silence.

Aman longed to grab this opportunity and cut the call short. Neither of them were ready for this. They needed to prepare, to -. But no, they’d been unprepared then too. His father had caught them off guard and it had all spiralled outwards from there. No, they had to do this. They were the ones steering the course of this, they were in control now. It was quite literally now or never. 

His father had one chance. It was down to him how he made use of it.

“Agar tum chaho.. Toh Papa bhi bula sakte ho.”  **(If you wish to, you can also call me ‘Papa’.)**

Kartik leaned forward slightly, and Aman could sense his fear, his confusion. His guard wasn’t going to come down this easily. Despite the many kilometers between them, the way he held himself now was not unlike the way he’d stood there in the aangan under the midday sun. The awkward sorry - not a word the older man used regularly - echoed through the kitchen area.

It gave way to yet another heavy silence and Aman watched as Kartik tried to make sense of what they’d just heard.

Where was this going?

Going by the state of things, Aman could sense he wasn’t here for small talk. The rest of the family had gotten that sorted out for the head of the household. A clever move, admittedly, but it left a glaring hole in any track that this conversation could take. How the heavens would they get past that? God, would they have to be the ones to take the first step?

As the quiet held on for another 10 seconds and Kartik looked about ready to bolt, Aman decided it was enough.

Just as he was about to break the silence, Shankar Tripathi spoke again. A hint of nervousness belied the steady utterance of the question. Straight to the heart of the matter then. Okay. Best get this done with. It took a moment for what he’d actually said to register, though. How - 

“Kya hum aap se akele mein baat kar sakte hai Kartik?”

**(Can I speak to you in private, Kartik?)**

“Ji. Ek minute dedo.”  **(Yes. Give me a minute.)**

If the use of ‘aap’ surprised him, it certainly didn’t show. Aman supposed it made sense. They were practically strangers at this moment, so there would be no sense of knowing the other person in any way. And it was this that sent a sliver of worry through Aman - what did this suggest? Now, it was his grip that became unyielding. To his credit, the other man barely flinched.

Instead, he reached out to tilt Aman’s face towards him. Kartik’s gaze was steady, confident and calm. If he was sure, then it wasn’t Aman’s place to intervene. This wasn’t about him alone, after all. He stayed seated, watched as Kartik picked up the phone and walked away. It took all his strength to not get up and follow. He had to trust that this time, Kartik would be alright.

They were a two-man team, yes, but Kartik Singh was a force to be reckoned with in his own right.

He wouldn’t have taken this call alone if he wasn’t confident in his ability to handle this. Now it was on Aman to show that same good faith, that level of trust. Surely, that tender moment at the station counted for something? He had to believe that was the case, that their half - hug was a cornerstone of sorts. This was, hopefully, a chance at laying a foundation as strong as the one between Aman and his father had proven to be for so long. That it was shaky at the present moment didn’t have any bearing on whether a new one would be set today - Aman’s equation with his father shouldn’t factor into how Kartik handled this conversation with the older man.

It was this that gave Aman a bit more confidence.

They would be alright. It was this mantra that ran on loop in his head as he waited.

However, sitting still would only worsen things so Aman had to make do with walking around the flat, tracing the same path over and over. He made sure to steer clear of their bedroom door but occasionally, he’d chance upon a word on Kartik’s end. At one point, Aman could  _ swear  _ he heard a quiet, muffled sound that sounded suspiciously like a sob. It had tested the last of his resolve but Aman had willed himself to stay holding onto the sofa. No, he would  _ not  _ demand to be let into that room. Kartik would be alright.

More than once, he came across that damned folder from only earlier in the day. In it was the piece of paper that had inadvertently turned everything on its head. Kartik’s bucket list. Each time he walked past, Aman longed to read it once more.. but no. At this moment, they were dealing with events of the past that had bled into their present. Their home. Aman had no right to go and make assumptions of what Kartik expected of his future, let alone figure out which item he intended to tick off next. No, he’d have to wait for him to emerge from that room first.

An hour had passed before Aman heard the lock turn, the sound almost deafening him in the silence that filled the flat. He spun on his heel as Kartik shut the door behind him, his grip on the door handle vice like. As if he were relying on that unmoving object to keep him upright. Aman watched as he shut his eyes and breathed for a few counts. He knew that was his way of trying to ward off an oncoming panic attack and Aman’s brow furrowed at the realisation that this could be the result of  _ any  _ kind of conversation. That he seemed unsteady on his own two feet didn’t help matters and Aman didn’t know how to respond.

Eventually, he let go and turned his back to the door. Away from where the conversation had just taken place and towards Aman.

Kartik had only made it 3 steps forward when he looked up and Aman’s breath caught in his throat. It took a moment for Kartik to register who he was, and it was as it finally clicked that he stumbled, body pitching forward. Only a stone’s throw away from the sofa where Aman had been standing and waiting, but he didn’t have it in him to reach out and catch himself before the fall. 

Aman rushed forward and caught him before he hit the ground. Kartik seemed to sink into the battered sofa as soon as Aman sat them down, an arm wrapped around his back. A beat of silence. He watched as a few tears made their way down his partner’s face. Then, a sound of pure  _ anguish  _ shattered the tense silence and Aman’s heart clenched at the realisation that he was trying to restrain himself even now. He turned to press a kiss to his messy hair and that gesture seemed to be all that he needed.

Kartik turned in his hold to bury his face against Aman’s neck, his grip desperate and taut on his clothing. His whole body shook as the tides of emotions swept through him. Aman did not care in the least for the fact that there was a steadily growing damp patch on the soft material. Nothing else mattered in this moment apart from the man in his arms.

It was the least he could do to offer Kartik some semblance of comfort and safety. A place where he could let go. Even the bravest men have burdens they’d rather be without and Aman was more than willing to help him prise them away. He would not speak now for it was not his place to do so. He was here to listen.

_ I’ve swallowed my pride… _

_...I got my white flag up and its waving _

_ Cause you know this love’s worth saving _

-Daughtry, Battleships

  
  


Through the whole call, Kartik had tried his best to keep his emotions in check, his pride intact. It was here that he let it all go. It was here that he wept in earnest, letting the sobs wreck his body, ravage him. He felt Aman’s soft kisses and his arms around his body, a safe haven, a home. He could not find it in himself to speak not yet. And as always Aman understood. 

But he had to tell Aman. Somehow he did not think it would be right to do otherwise. 

“Aman” he managed to get out, moving away shifting himself more comfortably on the white sofa. 

“I’m here.” 

How could he be so reassuring after all the shit Kartik himself had thrown at him that day. But he had to tell him. He could not bear it all himself even if a part of him felt he should not burden Aman with all of this. 

“Mainu ‘apna’ kaya,” he said. “Naale, maafi mangi. Tenu patha, mere baap ne kadhi nahi mere toh maafi mangi.”  **(He called me his. And he asked for forgiveness. You know, my own father never asked for forgiveness)**

Not even after that final brutal beating did his own father ever apologise. Somehow in his mind, his father had thought his violence to be a form of justice, that he had assumed was an extension of his twisted love for Kartik. He had seen the same crazed righteousness in Shankar Tripathi when he had walked into the courtyard, stick in hand, knocking over a glass of water. And he had braved it as he always did.

He had not expected Shankar to break down.

He had not expected Shankar to weep through the phone and say “Mujhe maafi dijiye.”  **(Please forgive me)**

Never in his life had Kartik gotten an apology for all the wrongs that had been committed against him. Perhaps because of that, he had always felt himself to be lesser. Shankar Tripathi’s words proved to him that he was worth something. At least worth an apology. And that broke something in Kartik, a wall he had not dared to cross.

“It would be easier if he still hated me,” said Kartik. “It would be so much fucking easier. I could deal with him hating me, but this…”

“You don’t have to forgive him,” said Aman. “It’s your right, your choice.”

It was a strange thing, the dynamic between a parent and a child.

For all his life Kartik had thought parents the ultimate authority in everything. He had taken his father’s words, good and bad as if they were words of God himself. He had done it for years without knowing it. He did it because deep down he had believed in his father, he believed his father only had his best interests at heart. He thought his father a hero, a prophet, he supposed every child did. 

That’s what had made leaving Punjab all the more gut-wrenching the knowledge that he had to give up on that belief. Acknowledging somewhere along the track the man he had once made his temple, his mural, his sky was worthless, pathetic. That his hero was in truth the villain.

“I’ve already forgiven him,” said Kartik quietly. “I forgave him the day he dropped us off at the station when he gave you his blessings.”

Sometimes when Kartik closed his eyes he could still feel Shankar in his arms, weeping. It had never been a matter of forgiveness, at least not from Kartik’s end. He would give it readily. No, it had been a matter of whether Shankar understood the true extent of what he had done.

_ Aap hi duniya ho.  _ He had said to Shankar when he asked how he would fight the world. And he had meant it in earnest. The support of those that raised you, made you the people you were today, were your foundation in this turbulent. Kartik had lost it. He did not want Aman to have to lose it too.

But there was also something more to it. Another reason that was far more selfish. He wanted to give this belief another chance, the belief he had once had in his own father.

“If you’re absolutely certain,” said Aman.

“I am. It’s my choice, you said it yourself, and I chose to forgive him.”

Aman sat by him quietly taking it all in.

“I just don’t want you to think you’re obliged to forgive him, just because he’s  _ my  _ father.”

Kartik managed a small smile “He’s mine now too, he let me call him Papa remember.”

“Yeh mazak nahi hai Kartik. If you don’t think you can do this it’s fine and if that means you need me to leave-” **(This is no joke Kartik…)**

“Don’t say that,” he said. “What happened in Allahabad…”

“This is not about me or Allahabad, it’s about you.” 

“Just because my father was an abusive piece shit doesn’t mean you have to protect me all the time. If you haven’t noticed I’m no longer a child, this is my decision. I forgive him and I don’t want you to leave.” he paused. “That is unless you…”

“No,” said Aman. “Don’t you dare say it. It’s not true. And you, you’re not a mess or broken or hollow or whatever you think yourself to be. You are Kartik Singh, my Kartik. Meri duniya ka sabse ehem aur bada hissa. If you’re gone I will have half a world left.”  **(You are the biggest and most important part of my world)**

“I don’t know about you but I rather like the concept of a hemispheric post-apocalyptic dystopian world.” it was an attempt at a joke, a weak one but an attempt none the less.

Aman’s sense of humour must have been completely obliterated in the course of their fight, because for once instead of shrugging away his attempt at humour, Aman laughed. Really truly laughed, with his whole body leaning back against the white sofa, eyes glimmering, a grin too wide to fit his face. And his laughter, gods, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.

Kartik found that in moments like this, the destruction of pride was often sweeter than its preservation.

* * *

Link to [Achilles Edit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dNpHrXpn0YY) (the song that inspired the chapter name)

  
  



	4. Begin Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we wrote some fluff for once, don’t get used to it :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi as you can see we didn’t spend three months on this. We hope you like this chapter :D 🔪 :DD🛡

_ "The splendid thing about falling apart silently is that _

_ you can start over as many times as you like." _

―  Sanober Khan, ‘A Thousand Flamingos’

Aman was awakened by a dull pain in his left hand and it was only on trying to uncramp it did he recall all that had transpired the previous night. The phone call, the agonising wait. The revelation, the acceptance.

Kartik tending to his injury with the utmost care. Not a word had been spoken as they’d made their way back to their bedroom, steering clear of the small puddle in the area leading to their kitchen. After what felt like months of not, they’d fallen asleep facing each other. It had been a pleasant enough way to end the eventful day.

Come morning, however, Aman couldn’t help but doubt himself. This halfway truce. It was all well and good  _ saying  _ that it was alright but somehow, Aman found he couldn’t leave it at that. The place where they stood now was shaky, there was absolutely no denying it.

Still, the question remained: where do they go from here?

Reaching out, it was obvious that Kartik too, had only just managed to drag himself out of bed. Blinking away the last of the fog in his mind, Aman went through his morning routine trying to figure out what he should say to the other man. This was a new day - they should treat it as such, turn a new leaf.

Kartik’s smile as he made his presence in the kitchen was surprising, for it was genuine, with not the slightest trace of malice or caution. Somewhere, a part of Aman had expected conversation to become stilted and awkward. Yet, it came easily enough and it was only half way through breakfast that he noticed Kartik was fully dressed, ready for work.

“Aaj kyun jaa rahe ho? You should take a day off, I - ”

“No no, I’d scheduled an extra shift today beforehand. Plus, it wouldn’t be wise for you, injury and all. Tum aaraam kar lo.”

“But - ”

“No argument! Anyway, should everything go to plan, I should be back by 7. If I don’t head out now, though, I’ll have to put in an extra hour. Bye, love you!”

Before Aman could even comprehend the information and the casual goodbye, Kartik had left. Even now, when he’d been put through so much less than 12 hours ago, his partner did not seem to care for his own well being. It felt as though Aman’s exhaustion had taken Kartik’s own into consideration for it was only after drinking a mug of the strongest coffee that he felt about 50% awake.

Taking stock of his surroundings, Aman noticed smaller pieces of the vase in the most obscure corners of the kitchen. Kartik, bless his soul, had sorted out the larger ones and there was a pile of them on the counter.

Given that his good hand was almost useless, the cleanup took longer than it should have, which was unfortunate because really, he didn’t want to be confronted with the reality of that awful moment - for them  _ both _ , Kartik’s stricken visage would not leave his head no matter what he did - any longer.

But no, all these little pieces seemed to evade him deliberately. It took half an hour to get rid of all traces of the mess. But that was in the literal sense alone for Aman had no idea how to make sense of the mess his and Kartik’s hearts and minds had become.

Could all of that really be sorted through?

And the vase itself..oh goodness.

Aman remembered meeting Henri that bright morning and the familiarity between the elderly woman and his partner had been wonderful to see. It was further evidenced by the casual comment on the latter’s personal life. It had taken Aman by surprise then but over time, from the few anecdotes Kartik had shared with him, he had come to understand what Henri meant to him, somewhat.

It’s what made all this all the more painful, that Aman had inadvertently broken one of the things Kartik held in great regard. How could he even begin to apologise for that?

And with that, Aman was reminded yet again that Kartik had pushed himself to the limit by going to work today, insisting that he stay home too. What good did it do, really, when Aman’s mind was half at that kiosk anyway? Still he appreciated the gesture and tried to put this extra time to good use. 

That he could get some substantial studying done with the constant worry for his lover was surprising but he could only let some of it abate when he’d texted him close to lunch.

_ A - “How are you doing? What have you had for lunch?” _

The response, though prompt, was worrying. A fucking salad.

How did he think he’d get through the day on that alone? It was only Aman’s  _ hand  _ that was in a bad state - nothing crucial. He should have convinced Kartik to call in sick or at the very least, insisted on going to work with him. Tedious though it was, in Kartik’s company, it had become bearable. Amusing, even. It was these memories of their days at work that pushed him to send another text, this one indicating the need for a proper response.

_ A - Do you want me to come there and coerce you into eating something substantial? Kartik please, tu already itna thaka hua lag raha tha subah.. _

**(- Kartik please, you were already looking so worn out this morning..)**

_ K - I think I’ll be okay, it isn’t too crowded today. Tu kaisa hai? _

Frankly, Aman was a bit of a mess but there was no need to give Kartik more reason to worry right now. Even in this, he’d deflected the conversation to focus on him again. Dammit.

_ A - I’m doing fine, the hand’s healing alright too. It feels too empty here without you though  _ 🥺

The slew of hearts sent in response was reassuring and Aman wrapped up the last of his work before shifting his attention to the textbook laid out in front of him. Only 2 chapters to go, he could do this.

Yet, surprisingly enough, the subject had been quite layered and Aman took about 5 different diversions, resulting in only being able to wrap them up by 6. Head heavy, Aman picked up all the material and made his way to the cabinet in their room. He wouldn’t be revisiting these for the next few days anyway. 

It was only as he turned away that Aman caught sight of the manila file from yesterday. It had been kept on his bedside table, seemingly unopened for he could still see the same papers’ corners sticking out.

Right.

The bucket list. 

Picking up the folder, Aman sat down on the edge of the bed and opened it hesitantly. Sifting through the irrelevant sheets, he finally came to the crumpled one - the most invaluable one. It was as if he were reading the same words as a completely different person, however.

The events of last night had thrown him in the deep end and it was only now that he could reflect on exactly what had happened. And in light of all that, how was he supposed to navigate this?

He read both sides twice over, trying to figure out something that they could perhaps tick off together. 15 minutes of stretching his mind to its limit and Aman had had more than enough. He was too distracted to think. There was still something about yesterday that nagged at him, demanding his attention.

The call from Keshav felt akin to an intervention and it angered Aman to see Kartik so vulnerable, watching as he’d ‘conversed’ with them all. Even with the distance between them and a phone line, it felt as if they were still there, throwing glances over their shoulders, wary of another possible danger. It made shivers run down his spine even now,  _ even  _ after Papa had apologised to Kartik and Mummy had, well, gotten the truth out of them in that unique way of hers - demands laced with concern.

It was only when Kartik had admitted to still feeling the looming shadows of the past that Aman could recognise he still felt them too. No matter how much he’d tried to push them away, they lingered and he doubted if they’d leave as easily as he’d once believed.

Still, Aman knew he had to try.

He’d do anything,  _ anything  _ at all to dispel this darkness and bring in the light.

Giving the bucket list a final cursory glance and committing the unticked items to memory, Aman picked up his phone as it lit up, showing he’d received a text. From Kartik. Asking about something as simple (and disputable) as dinner. He chose to attend to that instead.

_ "This was difficult enough and there was  _

_ no point in pretending it wasn’t ‘ride or die’." _

‘Walls’, Dhyan S. H.

Kartik had never particularly liked his job at the toothpaste advertising company. He much preferred his other part time job as a childcare worker, at least then he could engage in intelligent conversation (as the great Yoda once said ‘Truly wonderful the mind of a child is’). Instead he was forced into a stupid superhero onesie, he forced to smile, forced to numb his mind and repeat that damned phrase:

“Kya aapke toothpaste mein pyaar hai?”

If he had to say it one more time he would surely go mad. 

Usually, he would not care, usually, Aman was there with him, to tease, to argue with, to generally make this boring job more interesting than it should be. Besides he looked so incredibly cute in this stupid get up, that even if they were not doing all the above Kartik could simply admire his lover under the fluorescent glow of the mall’s lights. He never got tired of looking at Aman. 

But Aman was not here and he had to trudge through the day without him.

“Kya aapke toothpaste mein pyaar hai?”

He said it without the enthusiasm he would usually display, he had not even the energy to fight the damn kitanu’s. For one he was tired, he had barely eaten except for the salad he had picked up from Soul Origin in his break. The events of yesterday however weighed down on him more than the physical tiredness ever could. It seemed all the energy he had possessed was drained out of his body through the tears he had shed yesterday.

He still could not believe that Shankar Tripathi had apologised. He could not believe that through this whole mess, he was slowly gaining a family. He remembered telling Rajni that he wanted to come home to this family.  _ Damaad banke.  _ And he had gotten it. And yet...he was not sure. He was so used to fighting he did not know what to do when the war ended, particularly this war. He did not know how or where they could go forward from here. 

They would need to figure it out. They...no. He had to concentrate on his job for now. The talk could come later. 

Yet he could not concentrate on the job either.

His mind was constantly on Aman. Aman who was home all alone. He wondered how he was doing with his injured hand and the memories of their fight. A part of him wished he had stayed home to look after him, to spend time with him. A part of him wished he was not here. He tried to allay that anxiety by texting Aman whenever he could, but it was not enough.

Though he only had one more hour of work left. He earnestly wished he had called in sick. Even his bones felt heavy, laden with tiredness. He wanted to collapse on the very spot. He resolved, however, to get through this final leg. He resolved to get home to Aman as soon as he could. He wanted to hold him in arms and simply talk, as they used to.

“Kartik you alright?” came the voice of his employer, Iqbal.

Kartik looked up and plastered another smile on his face “Theek hai just tired.”

It was not a lie. But it was not the entire truth either. 

“How’s Aman?” Iqbal asked. “Is he sick?”

“Yeah,” that was a blatant lie but Kartik was not about to air their fight and its aftermath to Iqbal, no matter how wonderful an employer he was.

“You shouldn’t have had to come over,” said Iqbal sympathetically. “I would have understood.”

Kartik shrugged “Bills aren’t cheap.”

Iqbal gave him the strained look of someone who understood, he gave a nod of acknowledgement wishing Aman well before no doubt going to look over some admin stuff. Unable to wait any longer, as soon as Iqbal was out of sight Kartik took out his phone and texted Aman.

_ K - dinner?  _ 🥺

He waited for a few minutes for Aman’s response to come.

.

_ A - shit, sorry forgot, was revising lost track of time  _ 😞

Kartik was more than a little disappointed. He was tired, hungry and was earnestly looking forward to a hearty meal. But there was no point letting this disappointment get to him. He took it in stride.

_ K- Do you want me to pick something up? _

_ A- Yh sure. Pizza?  _ 🍕 🥺

_ K- hawaiian  _ 😌

_ A- u know i fucking hate pineapples _ 🔫

Kartik let out a small laugh, knowing all too well Aman’s hatred for that particular topping. Once they had even debated it, three months into their relationship. Neither of them had won the debate and had decided to respect each other’s choices.

K- 😘

_ A- I’m serious :( _

At this Kartik could not help but think, rather irrationally, that he had truly hurt Aman’s feelings. Things were still tentative and shaky between them. He could not take any chances, not even when it came to pizza.

_ K- alrighty what do you want? _

_ A- anything that doesn’t have pineapples _

_ K- noted. _

He was hesitant to type the next few words but he decided to take the plunge anyway.

_ K- i’ll come home by 7.30. miss u. love u  _ _ 💕 _

_ A- love you too  _ 🤗

It felt a little more like normal. Kartik allowed himself to smile. As he put his phone away he looked up to see a customer glaring up at him. She was a middle-aged woman, and looked eerily like the Indian version of the infamous internet phenomenon, Karen. He just about to ponder what one would call an Indian Karen when she cleared her throat, no doubt wanting an apology.

“Sorry Ma’am,” he said pushing his phone more securely in his pocket, adding weakly. “Kya aapke toothpaste mein pyaar hai?”

“I’ve been waiting for five minutes,”

“Sorry I was-”

“Texting one of your many girlfriends,” she huffed. “I know your type all too well.”

Kartik was about to protest that he in fact only had one partner, and boyfriend - no husband- at that. But he decided to let it be. There was no point in making an uncomfortable conversation even more sinister, by throwing homophobia in the mix. And it hurt to think that she would automatically choose to assume all that about him, just because he spent a little too much time talking to Aman on his phone. 

Then again his behaviour had been unprofessional. There had been a reason why he waited until Iqbal left before getting out his phone after all. Kartik didn’t know how Aman managed to  _ call  _ people on the job.

“Sorry Ma’am,” he repeated. “Can I help you?”

  
  
“I need to speak to your manager.”   
  


Kartik was lucky that Iqbal had already taught him how to handle overbearing customers.

“I am the manager,” 

She studied him, narrowing her eyes “Your conduct was unprofessional.”

He was tired, his energy already spent, his emotions at breaking point. He did not want to deal with her. Least of all with less than five minutes left of his shift.

“Look,” he snapped. “If you just want to lecture me about my conduct I suggest you leave. I don’t have time for this.”

But she stood unmoving. The final five minutes stretched to an extra half an hour arguing with this woman. When she eventually did leave, she took Kartik’s sanity and peace of mind with her. To make matters worse he had promised Aman he would be home by half past seven.

It was currently 7.31 and he could already feel tears of frustration pooling in his eyes.

_ "They always say time changes things,  _

_ but you actually have to change them yourself." _

―  Andy Warhol, 'The Philosophy of Andy Warhol'

It was about 8 at night now, no sign of Kartik as yet, but Aman tried not to worry. Delhi traffic was both a menace and wildly unpredictable. Their conversation had been brief and it had engaged his mind but Aman could not muster the cheer in the emoji he’d sent with the last text.

His mind was running in circles, Allahabad, list. Allahabad, list.

Check the list. Think about their dreams.

See them almost vanish.

Then return back to this present moment. It felt as if they were hanging by their fingertips from a cliff edge. Not one single thing seemed to stand out to him and it all blurred into a single emotion: bewilderment. Unable to take the tension, he sent Kartik a series of texts. If he didn’t see or hear from him at this very moment, Aman swore he’d go up in flames, drown, turn to dust.

No response. That was okay, it had to mean he was okay. Probably still driving, that was it.

Aman tried to calm his racing heart. It would do no good to be so wound up, not when Kartik would undoubtedly return exhausted. He’d already done so much for Aman, it was the least he could do not to disappoint him by seeming so agitated. This was a new day, a new beginning. A new start, not the end.

It was just as he was passing the front door for the twentieth time that he heard a knock on the door. Knowing it could be only one person at this hour, he all but ran towards it, almost tripping on the doormat in his haste to pull open the door.

A wave of deja vu swept over him - they’d been in this position only yesterday. Aman was relieved to see Kartik in one piece, standing at their doorstep, expectant.

Except, that was where the similarity ended.

The man stood before him had a defeated, worn look in his eyes. He was wearing not a lovely sweater but a t- shirt and worn out jeans. Hands holding pizza boxes, not a bouquet of poppies. 

What on Earth had happened?

_ "Now you hang from my lips _

_ Like the Gardens of Babylon" _

-Taylor Swift, 'cowboy like me'

Kartik barely remembered ordering the pizza. His mind had been too preoccupied with the lecture that Karen had decided to give him. In fact he was not even sure which pizza he had ordered. 

He had ignored Aman’s texts and phone calls. Not out of spite for him, no never that, but rather out of distaste. After the woman’s lecture he had not the heart to pick his phone up again. He berating reminded him so much of his own father’s lectures that he had almost expected her to produce a blacksmith’s rod from behind her back, as his father used to do.

He had been frustrated after talking to her, weary, angry and disappointed. To top it all off he was late. The tears of frustration that had welled in his eyes, had spilled over a thousand times their due, he had let out soft sobs when he thought no one else was looking, clenching his fists trying to breathe. But it was not enough. What he really wanted to do was scream. 

He promised Aman he would be home by 7.30. Clearly that was not happening, it was about 8:45 now and he knew Aman would be worried sick. And considering the state of their minds right now, he was half afraid that Aman would throw back  _ that _ accusation at him. The one Kartik had thrown so carelessly at him. 

_ It would only be fair  _ a part of him whispered  _ to be accused of infidelity when you have done the same. Tit for tat. An eye for an eye so to speak. _

The boxes of pizza were still warm against his chest and the clock had struck 9pm by the time he arrived back at their apartment. He knocked on the door once, hurriedly trying to hide the signs of his frustration, the tears, hoping Aman would be too tired to notice his bleary red eyes. He did not need to add to Aman’s worries. 

Hearing footsteps he braced himself for a thorough berating, for a fight, for vile accusations. But it never came.

When the door opened Aman smiled at him relieved. He had not changed out of his pyjamas, the crumpled blue pinstripe bottoms and the white shirt. He had not shaved for the past few days, his short beard accentuating his features, his hair delightfully mussed. He was wearing his glasses too meaning he had been studying. And all of this had gone unappreciated in the last few days. Kartik did not deserve him.

Seeing him however Aman’s relief transformed to worry. Kartik realised the treacherous tears had returned to his eyes.

“Kya hua?” asked Aman. “Sab kuch theek hai na? Kartik-”

“I’m sorry I’m late,” said Kartik hurriedly walking across the threshold, but he could not stop the anger, the frustration from following him “I know I said 7.30. I’m really sorry, I truly Aman. There was a lady at work she... you were right I shouldn’t have gone. I’m so fucking sorry-”

Aman took the pizza boxes from him, before kissing his cheek. Warmth bloomed in Kartik’s chest at the gesture, it unravelled the knots of anxiety, frustration and anger that had built in his chest he found himself smiling. He felt relief, warm like sunshine and just as golden coursing through him. 

“I’m just glad you’re safe,” said Aman, putting the boxes on a table in the entrance way, he reached out and took Kartik’s hand in his, rubbing his thumbs over his knuckles in the firm rhythmic motion that would never fail to calm him. “You must be famished.”

Kartik was famished. The simple kiss on the cheek had shown him how much he hungered for affection. How much Aman’s actions meant to him, how much they could help him heal. And he wanted more. He wanted more than this simple kiss on the cheek. 

How long had it been since they had kissed, truly properly kissed?

He found himself pulling Aman towards him so that their nose almost touched. He felt shy, just like the first time he had ventured to kiss Aman on their second date at the back of the Ola while driving to college. It was almost as if they were restarting their relationship anyway. He figured it was worth a shot. 

“Can I?” 

Aman answered by pressing his lips against Kartik’s own. The kiss was soft, delicate, but warm and true. He wanted to stay in this moment for a long time yet, taking it in, capturing every little moment, every little gesture. He deepened the kiss, revelling in the feel of Aman. He wanted time to slow down just for them. He wanted to forget everything and give himself wholly to Aman’s affection and the feeling of relief that came with it.

Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) his stomach protested. The salad for lunch had truly not been enough.

_ As happens sometimes,  _

_ a moment settled and hovered and remained  _

_ for much more than a moment.  _

_ And sound stopped and movement stopped for much, _

_ much more than a moment. _

―  John Steinbeck, 'Of Mice and Men'

The more than welcome surprise that Kartik’s kiss had meant the pizzas he’d hurriedly placed atop the handy small table had almost been forgotten. Aman would have been more than happy if that moment had frozen then. Just him and Kartik and the kiss they shared. It had been less about passion and more about showing the other man he loved him, truly loved him.

The smile Kartik gave him, a little tired but no less blinding in its light, told Aman he understood. 

Curious and concerned though he was, Aman didn’t want to probe for the details as to why Kartik looked so downtrodden - the man didn’t need a bloody Spanish Inquisition to end an already stressful day. Picking up the boxes, Aman made his way to their kitchen and a few moments later, he heard Kartik’s tell tale muffled sigh as he flopped face down on the sofa.

Aman didn’t have the heart to ask him to get up and make his way to the table and so, arranged the food on the (nicest) plates they had and carried them back into the living room. Unsurprisingly, Kartik was already half asleep and Aman would’ve let him rest if he’d eaten something more substantial than a bloody salad earlier in the day. Gently, he shook him awake, and guided him to sit with his back against the sofa.

It was clear that neither of them was in the state to converse but Kartik’s company and the warmth of his body - Aman was reminded yet again of how  _ long  _ it had been since they’d done something like this - was more than enough.

He could barely move a muscle once they were done eating and it was a struggle to get Kartik to his feet and back to their room. Within minutes, they were in bed and it was only as Aman was about to turn off the bedside light that he heard Kartik mumble something, words muffled as his face was pressed against his shoulder.

“I wish we could just get away from here for a while, it would be nice.”

Even with only half his wits about him, Aman could sense the longing in his voice (a tad dreamy too, but that could be because he was already half asleep really) but before he could respond in agreement, he found Kartik fast asleep. Planting a kiss on his forehead, Aman pulled him closer and let himself fall asleep.

The sliver of an idea that came into his head at hearing that could wait till tomorrow.


	5. Accomodation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frozen is a nice movie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sargun can't spell asuconation.

_ Tired, tired with nothing, tired with everything,  _

_ tired with the world’s weight he had never chosen to bear. _

-F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Beautiful and the Damned

When Kartik awoke it was to the sound of Aman breathing steadily and to the warmth of his body against his own. Somewhere over the course of the night their limbs had become tangled in each other. Kartik let out a smile. Things were slowly going back to normal. The worst was behind them, but that did not mean the road ahead would not be difficult. 

He decided however to savour these little moments as well as he could, the Gods only knew how quickly this could be taken away from him. He placed a kiss on Aman’s temple, running his fingers affectionately through his hair. It had been a long while since he had felt he could do something like this so freely. 

The other man’s eyes fluttered awake, he let out a lazy smile.

“You’re awake early.” Aman remarked groggily, burying his face into the crook of Kartik neck, apparently intending to resume his slumber.

Kartik truly wanted to stay here but that was not to be. He tried to shrug Aman off.

“I need to get to work.” he announced.

Aman raised himself so that he was staring Kartik down. His brows furrowed. His beautiful eyes, so focused they seemed to burn straight through.

“No.”

Kartik frowned “The kids-”

  
  
“To hell with them, you’re not in the right state to work today.”

“I’ve slept,” Kartik protested. “I promise.”   
  


“No.”

Kartik was more than a little disappointed. Though he worked at the toothpaste stand, he had also taken up some part time work at a childcare/tutoring centre. He liked working with the kids, and the kids liked him. It was the only job he looked forward to. And he had promised to show them pictures of his trip to the Himalayas, he had placed the damn photo album on the mantle-piece last week so he would not forget

“Aman-”

  
  
“Look at it this way.” Aman sat up now. “If you’re too tired, you won’t have the energy to be the fun teacher they love so much. You need to take a day off.”

Aman had a point, and his burning eyes gave him no choice.

“Alright,” he relented. “I’ll call in sick.”

“I’ll make breakfast,” Aman announced. 

“Can you kiss me again? Like you did last night.”

  
  
Aman grinned “What? With that morning breath? No.”

Aman extricated himself from his arms and Kartik lay in bed, unable to do anything else but smile. First the kiss and now a semblance of their usual banter. As far as he was concerned it was a good start. While he knew, a shadow hung over them, a shadow that needed more effort than this to dispel, it was looking far more easier to manage.

He supposed the least he could do was follow Aman’s orders, brush his teeth, and call in sick. He rose from his bed and called work first. They were surprisingly easy-going about it, which Kartik decided to take as a good omen for the rest of the day. 

As he went through the motions of his morning routine he tried to think how exactly he could broach the topic of  _ them.  _ He did not think today would be a good day, they needed some time to recuperate, recover, reacquaint themselves with the happier and easier sides of their love. But they also needed to talk about what had happened. They could not simply brush it aside and pretend it never happened. 

He was not entirely sure how to approach the topic with Aman but decided to take it all in stride as he made his way to the kitchen.   
  


He was about to ask why pancakes specifically (he wasn’t completely inept at cooking he knew how long it took to make them), when Aman simply smiled and walked out of the kitchen in order to go through his own morning routine.

Kartik stood in the kitchen alone resisting the urge to eat one of the pancakes at this very moment. He looked at the table and smiled, seeing a platter of strawberries and a bowl of melted chocolate. 

They were after all his favourite. 

_ “Love without conversation is impossible.” _

\- Mortimer Adler

A proper 8 hours had done wonders for Aman’s optimism levels and so, he decided to begin the day with a nice breakfast: pancakes. Sure, they required time and concentration but Aman was more than willing to put it in. After all, this was for Kartik more than him - he deserved something truly special. Before he could get to his morning routine however, Kartik intercepted with the frankly absurd announcement that he was going to work. Looking like he could barely get himself to their front door without support.

Absolutely not. Thus, that he managed to convince him (didn’t take much, unsurprisingly) to stay at home for just one day was what motivated him to start the day.

Within minutes, his partner had commandeered the bathroom, further confirming that his choice to get to the kitchen first was a good idea.

Just as Aman had put the necessary accompaniments on the counter, he heard Kartik’s footsteps behind him. Turning, he didn’t offer an explanation, just a smile, instead deciding to wake himself up a bit. Kartik certainly looked refreshed and Aman wanted to look a little respectable in front of him. It would not do for this day to begin on a low note on his end. Too hungry to shower immediately, he got the rest done and willed himself to wake up. 

Returning in just under 15 minutes, Aman found Kartik staring longingly at the spread he’d taken the initiative to arrange on the table and the sight caught him off guard - why hadn’t he begun yet?

“I didn’t want to start the day without you, simple.”

The ease and incredulity of the response took Aman aback but he tried to hide it, lest Kartik take offence. Aman had to put in conscious effort to not misstep again and try to keep the light in Kartik’s eyes bright. They’d gone out so abruptly in their altercation - no, it was too kind a word but Aman couldn’t bear to give it a more fitting name - that he feared being the cause of that awful change if he could help it at all.

He wouldn’t be able to take it, certainly not this soon, when they were still reeling from the impact, struggling to recover. This was a start, an opportunity and Aman had to treat it as such. He took a second to look at him in that lens, truly look and comprehend what this was.

Kartik wasn’t wearing  _ the  _ sweater and he seemed to be in good spirits. He stood tall, expectant (not, wary, God no) and happy to see him.

All Aman could do was reach up to kiss his cheek before taking a seat at the table, feeling a dart of pain in his chest at how surprised he looked at the simple gesture.

He watched as Kartik dragged the chair around to sit closer to him and they talked about all things mundane just to get their minds working and, well, catch up. Even that, the man managed to make it worthwhile and Aman couldn’t deny he missed this ease of conversation, the harmless banter. 

It was as if they hadn’t actually been living in the same house all this while so Aman was glad for this, something to have them on the same page, to a place of familiarity. Something sturdy and safe, something unchanging.

The food was long gone by the time Aman thought to glance up at the kitchen clock. Granted, they’d only began eating at 9 AM, but that 3 hours had gone by since then without either of them noticing was surprising. ‘Relaxed’ wasn’t a word he’d used to describe either of them in far too long and it was just as the thought occurred to him that he saw a peculiar expression settle on Kartik’s face - a mixture of caution, contemplation and curiosity. Fear too, but Aman tried to ignore that last one, though it seemed to vanish as fast as it had arrived as a smile came onto his face.

_ You don't have to say I love you  _

_ To say I love you _

_ Forget all the shooting stars  _

_ And all the silver moons _

\- Troye Sivan, Him.

  
  


Kartik was dipping the last of the strawberries into the bowl of melted chocolate, when he noticed how utterly relaxed Aman was. He had not seen him like this in days. For weeks even. Had the situation really been so tense between them? Had he truly been that close to losing the man he loved? As harrowing as the realisation was, the relief of knowing that somehow the tension was sloughing away, outweighed it. 

Kartik found himself smiling as he watched his lover take another sip of his orange juice.

Aman noticed his gaze and gave him a quizzical expression.

“Do I have chocolate on my face again?” asked Aman.

Kartik laughed and shook his head. “No I was just wondering…something.”

“Wondering?”

“Well…” he started unsure of what to say. ‘What are you gonna do with me now that you’ve successfully swindled me out of work?”

Aman shrugged, putting his glass of orange juice. “I’m not sure.”

“You’ve pulled out the most successful con in the history of cons, you have me completely in your thrall and you’re telling me you don’t know?” with mock offence he gestured to his whole being. “Are you telling me I’m not a catch?”

“Isn’t it too early in the morning to seduce me?”

“Is that an invitation for later?”   
  
Aman shrugged again, taking another sip of his orange juice. But there was something awkward in his shrug. A little bit of the old tension had returned to Aman. Kartik wondered where he had gone wrong.

“Do you remember the poem you wrote in college?” Aman asked, changing the subject. “The one during the poetry unit we took together.”

“The one with the silver moon or whatever  _ bakwas _ I wrote all those years ago.”   
  
“Who did you write it for?” he asked, he had never asked this question before. “It sounded very personal, I was afraid to ask before, thinking there was someone else better than me. I was a little jealous.”   
  
“By  _ other person _ , do you mean Jaz?”

Aman let out an awkward laugh at the mention of their mutual college friend (and as it eventually turned out mutual college crush). “Yeah.”

Kartik shook his head “This is going to sound embarrassing but...it was actually about you. I had a crush on you long before we met properly at the club. I just didn’t know how to tell you without sounding like a simp.”

“Me  _ and _ Jaz? You two-timing bastard.” The grin on his face was genuine but Aman’s words made him falter   
  
Kartik felt himself wince. The wounds of yesterday had not properly healed over. He could still remember how he had felt when Aman’s face had fallen at the accusation of infidelity. He looked down, unable to meet Aman’s eye. 

“Kartik I…” his voice was cautious. “I didn’t mean…”

“No it's okay,” Kartik said. “I think we should talk about it anyway. What happened two days ago, our fight and-”

“No,” Aman cut him off. 

“We need to talk about this,” Kartik insisted. “We can’t let this...lack of communication fuck us up again. You know that.”

“I do,” Aman replied. “Trust me Kartik I do. But I just...I need today to not be confrontational you know? I haven’t gotten my thoughts together and I don’t know if I can say anything without fucking up like I did before. It’s going to be hard and I’m not trying to avoid it, I swear, but can we just have some space...to figure ourselves out before we go into this? I want us to be mature and rational.”

Kartik considered his words for a second. Aman was right. They did not need to go at this immediately, they needed to reassure themselves that they were going to be okay. They needed one day to do something normal, something simple. 

He nodded. “Alright, but you have to promise me, we’ll talk about this by the end of this week.”

Aman reached out and clasped Kartik’s hand, the one that held the forgotten and uneaten strawberry, still poised delicately above the bowl of chocolate. 

“I promise,” Aman looked down at the strawberry. “You better eat it before the chocolate comes off.”

Kartik’s heart swelled a little at the promise he proffered the chocolate coated strawberry to Aman.

“Half-half?” he questioned.

Aman looked down at the generously coated fruit in Kartik’s fingers, he hesitated. 

“You  _ never _ share your chocolate coated strawberries.”

“Take a bite before I change my mind.”

Aman did as he was bidden taking a bite out the strawberry in Kartik’s hand. When Kartik had placed the rest of it in his own mouth he could have sworn it tasted sweeter than it should have. Perhaps he should halve his food with Aman more often. 

“So have you figured out what to do?” Kartik asked after a while.

Aman looked down at the empty dishes and cutlery before them. 

“Wash the dishes.”

  
  
“Boring.” Kartik quipped.

“I need to take a shower.” Aman said thoughtfully. “I completely forgot. Bhookh lagi thi.”

“Shower.” Kartik’s interest was piqued. “That’s more like it. Do I get to join?”

Aman’s amused expression faltered, became a touch heavier. Kartik realised his mistake.

“Too much too soon?”

“Yeah, sorry.” he looked down at the empty plates. “I love you but...it just doesn’t feel right considering how things are right now-”

“You don’t need to explain,” Kartik said softly. “Don’t dwell too much on it okay? Remember no confrontations today. How about a movie?” Suddenly Kartik had a brilliant idea. “ Let’s watch Frozen.”

Aman gave him an incredulous look that was not without its amusement.

“You can’t be fucking serious.”

“I will have you know that Frozen is a masterpiece.” Kartik huffed. “That shit is Oscar-worthy.”   
  
Aman rolled his eyes, but he was smiling again and that was all Kartik needed.

“Alright” Aman conceded. “Fine but you’re not allowed to sing along to the ‘Let it Go’ or I will eat the rest of your strawberries.”

  
“Over my dead body, Aman Singh Tripathi.”

Aman’s expression changed. His eyes widened, lips parted. He seemed about to say something, but some invisible force seemed to have stopped from doing so at the very point the words were meant to escape. Slowly Kartik realised what it was. 

_ Aman Singh Tripathi. _

It had been the first time either of them had acknowledged their married status after their wedding. Kartik cleared his throat, turning red. 

“Should I...uh…clear the dishes and set up the movie as you shower?”

“Yeah,” Aman choked out. “I’ll just,” he gestured awkwardly in the general direction of the bathroom. “I’ll just go.”

They went their separate ways once again. Kartik did what he had promised, artfully clearing the dishes and turning on their TV scrolling through his recents on Disney+. As he did so he kept repeating two phrases in his mind.

_ Aman Singh Tripathi. _

_ Kartik Singh Tripathi. _

He felt a certain warmth bloom in his chest, but also a certain pain remembering the awkwardness of the moment. It could not be dispelled even when Aman came into the living room, dressed in his favourite black track pants and a grey shirt, nestling himself against Kartik on the sofa. 

It was clear neither of them knew what to make of it.

_ “There is something in the nature of tea  _

_ that leads us into a world of quiet contemplation of life.” _

― Lin Yutang, The Importance of Living

Kartik seemed to lose himself in the animate d wonders of Anna’s adventures easily enough (though Aman noticed momentary lapses in spite of himself) but try as he might, he could not do the same. The awkwardness had lingered as he’d showered too, the hot water scalding instead of soothing him.

Kartik Singh  _ Tripathi _ .

Aman  _ Singh  _ Tripathi.

Those 6 words wouldn’t leave the back of his mind no matter what he did. They continued to whisper, louder in his head than Kartik’s rendition of ‘Let It Go’ even. So preoccupied was Aman in trying to placate that damn voice that he did not stop Kartik. The man himself gave up at the bridge of the song, faltering no doubt at the expression that had made its way onto Aman’s face unbidden. Giving him a tight, awkward (dammit, why was everything going wrong?) smile, he got to his feet.

Aman went to return the popcorn bowl to the kitchen, feeling the weight of Kartik’s stare on his back. It was now 5 PM and Aman was in desperate need of a coffee if he was going to stay awake and coherent for the rest of the day. Aware enough to trap these thoughts and lock them up lest they bleed into this sacred day. Each and every minute spent with Kartik was precious and he couldn’t afford to waste it wrapped up in his own head if he could help it.

Pulling open the cupboards, Aman got out the necessary items and set them down on the counter. With a few tries, he managed to light the stove and as the milk warmed, he set up another station to make a cup of chai.

It wasn’t often that he made tea and his poor boyfriend had resigned himself to the fact that he’d have to make do with his own subpar brew or source it from the tapri closest to their block of flats. Today he had to go the extra mile, there was no question.Everything about today felt a touch different, so Aman decided to surprise Kartik (try and make him smile too but maybe that was a reach) - surely he could get this right? And it was quite easy, surprisingly, with a voice in his head guiding him through each step. It looked and smelled about right too, the final product (and familiar, though he couldn’t pinpoint why) which was more than Aman was expecting.

Setting the two cups on a tray, took them into the living room only to realise he’d forgotten the crucial component to all this. He barely saw Kartik’s surprised expression as he turned away once more. Neither did he hear the soft exclamation of appreciation or the call in his name with a clink of the cup to a saucer as he all but ran back towards the storage units.

Aman rooted about for the pack of biscuits he was  _ sure  _ had been stored at the back of a drawer. He knew they were Kartik’s favourites, what if he’d nicked them? Ah, no, he hadn’t, apparently (though frankly he’d almost resigned himself to that idea, it wouldn’t be the first time Kartik had tried the stunt).

His hand closed around something somewhat cylindrical and Aman let out a sound of quiet triumph as he pulled it out, only to be absolutely bewildered by what the object was.

A flask.

Sunaina Tripathi’s prized flask to be specific. The subject of so many ‘aap shayad isse Aman se bhi zyaada pyaar karte ho’ quips.

**(‘Sometimes, it feels like maybe you love it more than Aman’)**

What in the world was it doing in a drawer in their kitchen? Why hadn’t his mother noticed its absence?

Aman stumbled backwards, barely registering the sharp pain in his hip as he collided with their dining table. The flask clattered to the ground and he hurried to pick it up once more - no matter how it had gotten here, his mother would kill him if there was so much as a scratch on its surface.

He couldn’t bring himself to lean into Kartik’s touch at his shoulder as he guided them to the chairs. Their beverages were placed carefully on the table, next to the flask, but Aman couldn’t bring himself to care about the fact that his coffee was rapidly cooling.

“Kya hua?”

The whirlwind of questions in Aman’s mind would not calm, even at the sound of Kartik’s voice. No wonder that damned chai looked right - it was his mother’s technique. He’d spent countless hours of his childhood by her side in the kitchen, so learning the process was only natural.

It didn’t take long after that memory arrived at the forefront of his mind for Aman to realise who’s voice it had been in his head. A younger Sunaina, a softer voice, more patient and distant sounding (what, he’d been  _ tiny  _ as a child).

“Yeh humare paas kaise aaya?”

**(“How did this end up with us?”)**

He watched as Kartik’s concern morphed into confusion, the unasked question obvious in the furrow of his brow. He reached out to hold the object in question and Aman barely held back a gasp. In the Tripathi household, no one had been allowed to even  _ look  _ at the damn flask, let alone touch it and here Kartik was, handling it like it was something ordinary.

“Yeh? Oh, Maa ne diya tha, just as we were about to leave. I think you were busy with chacha but she’d very kindly given me enough tea to last the journey and - Aman? What’s wrong, babe?”

He barely noticed the flash of chagrin on Kartik’s face at the accidental use of the endearment.

No, at the word ‘chai’ Aman couldn’t hold back the tears any longer. Fucking hell, his mother had done this and he hadn’t even known? The woman was loath to let anyone else use it and she’d sent it all the way to Delhi? She’d been less protective over her kangan, her jewellery made of real gold, for goodness sake, than this flask. There were at  _ least  _ 3 other flasks in that house, Aman knew, yet she’d chosen this one.

She’d taken the effort to show she cared, that she accepted them, hoping that Aman would understand.

And he had, but maybe.. maybe it was too late.

What was he to do with this information now?

The yellow logo on the lid reminded him of the now shattered vase and with it came the cycle that had haunted him yesterday. Another voice too, now, Kartik’s, saying ‘Aman Singh Tripathi’ as if it was the easiest, most natural thing in the world.

And really, wasn’t it?

Only hours ago, he’d said to Kartik that he wasn’t ready to talk to him about this and he stood by it even now, that he definitely wasn’t ready. That didn’t mean, however, that anyone else had gotten the memo. Life was under no obligation to make things easi _ er _ for him, for them.

At every turn, they just  _ had  _ to be reminded of this, as if without reaching a resolution, the matter would continue to jab at them. He wasn’t running from this, he  _ wasn’t  _ but.. perhaps they had to sort out everything beyond them before addressing the equation between them - he had to take this in stride.

Right now, they had to take care of them, their relationship above all else. There quite literally was no room left to accommodate anything else.

It was suffocating, to have both an overwhelming, indisputable love for Kartik and resentment for their situation wage a damn war in his head. The former had to win, there was no doubt of it, but Aman didn’t know when and how the battles they’d been fighting at different fronts had gone and blurred into one. That he’d even allowed it to happen, let all this pain simmer beneath them until it had gone and blown up in their faces was something Aman simply couldn’t ignore.

This had been wearing him down by the minute and he was so close to accepting a compromise but.. this was a revelation.

This was a sign of a steady ascent to victory. 

“Ghar mein.. ghar mein kam se kam 3 aur honge, perfectly functional lekin.. tujhe.. yeh unka tareeka hai, tumhe apnane ka. It wasn’t the phone call, it was that very gesture. Oh gosh, I - ”  **(There must be at least 3 in the house, but she.. to you.. this was her way of accepting you as her own.)**

Aman held on to Kartik’s hoodie as he wept in his embrace, his calm voice helping him work through the tides of emotion without judgement. More than anything, it was now, with his parents' true approval, that Aman found a great potion of his fears turned to dust. He had to accept, at long last, that he had been craving for his parents’ nod, their _‘manzoori’_ all these years.

They finally knew about them, understood their love, and the voice in the back of his mind finally went quiet. He’d pushed it away for so long, but it had never gone away, knowing it was correct. It was only now that he could focus all his attention on the present, on what had actually transpired and sort it out. He could allow himself to envision a future.

Whether it was with Kartik in the way he so hoped for it to be was all that was left to figure out. Easier said than done, that.

  
  



End file.
